


Harbours of My Own

by wingedspirit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Canon Expansion, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Home, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nesting, flagrant invention of angel lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23083411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: Crowley knows that, as a demon, his freedom is limited. He doesn't get to have a home; he doesn't get to love. Aziraphale would very much like to change that, but he, too, is limited in what he can do.It takes the better part of six thousand years, but they'll get there.(A Crowley POV, canon-compliant run through history, up to and including immediately after the Armageddon-that-wasn't.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 175
Kudos: 382
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works)





	1. Mesopotamia, 3004 BC

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. Welcome to yet another angsty run through canon. This started, I swear to you, as a fluffy plotbunny I thought I could get out in 3k words at most. Then I decided to fill in just a little bit of the backstory to make the comfort work better. And then it grew, and grew, and grew… and this is the result.
> 
> This is canon compliant to the best of my ability; I’ve pulled in additional material from the book and script book to expand some canon scenes, and made up others entirely as needed (such as the forming of the Arrangement). There’ll be extra details in chapter notes about what I got from where, because I’m that kind of person.
> 
> The title is from [_Stray Italian Greyhound_ , by Vienna Teng](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLySk3i4dFI). (I am nothing if not predictable in my musical preferences.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

# Mesopotamia, 3004 BC

It’s not his fault. It’s not.

Is it?

No, of course it isn’t. It can’t be.

It’s just —

Alright, he’s gotten comfortable, perhaps a little _too_ comfortable, if he must be honest. He’s built himself a little house, in this tiny, no-name village on this vast, wide plain. Settled down, got to know the neighbours. Hasn’t made friends, exactly, because his like don’t get to make friends, but — he’s not hated. Matter of fact, he’s pretty sure they think he’s an angel, and — fine, he’s not done much to dissuade them of the notion, hasn’t clarified that actually, he’s the other variety of immortal being, but he’s not particularly keen on getting chased out with torches and pitchforks. He likes it here.

Well. _Liked_ it here. Because now —

 _Fuck_.

It’s not his fault. It can’t be his fault. Yeah, God is ineffable, unknowable, beyond understanding and all that rot, and enormously fucking petty besides, but She wouldn’t do this. She couldn’t. Not — not just because of him. His mere presence is not enough to doom everyone around him to a horrible death.

No, that wouldn’t make sense at all. Especially not considering Noah — Noah the Chosen, Noah Favoured by God, Noah the complete and utter prat — Noah had lived in the house right next to his, before he’d started working on the ark, with his wife and his sons and his sons’ wives. One big, happy family under a frankly too-small roof. They’d liked him and he’d liked them. They’d shared meals together, and he’d played dice with Shem, and Ham’s wife had taught him a different way to weave, and —

And then he’d gone to lunch at theirs one day, and they had acted strange and subdued, and they’d stunk of angel.

They’d asked for his help. And what were they willing to give him in return? Nothing, of course. No promised safety for him, nor for any of their neighbours, or anyone else who didn’t belong to their immediate family. Not even the children. It was God’s will, they were sure he understood.

Fuck that.

Of course he’d helped anyway, but not for their benefit. None of them had any sort of experience with livestock except for the very basics. There was absolutely no way they were going to manage to gather a mated pair of each kind of animal without running into trouble, and he’d be damned — again — if he let their ineptitude be the cause of extinction.

Plus, it gave him a valid reason to be around the ark, and he could and did explore it thoroughly without arousing their suspicion. That way, once the flood’s started and he’s gathered up all the children he could, he will stand a better chance of sneaking them onto the ark and into the hiding spot he’d identified. They will probably find him eventually, but he knows them. They might be intolerably self-righteous, and bent to God’s will, but they surely would not be cruel enough to just toss a bunch of kids overboard at that point. And anyway, if they try, he’ll fight them, and they’ll lose; and if God has a problem with that, She can bloody well smite him instead of making humans do Her dirty work.

And after the flood’s done — well. He’s likely going to have to spend a few years taking care of the kids, before the oldest ones are grown enough that they can take over. After that… he’ll see. He’ll probably just wander for a while. He rather thinks he’s lost his taste for settling down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I took the implication that Crowley knows Noah and his family at least in passing (“Oi, Shem!”) and ran with it.


	2. Rome, 41 AD

# Rome, 41 AD

“In Rome long?” Aziraphale asks, blithely, and Crowley has to smother the urge to fling his wine in the angel’s stupid face. He’s never anywhere long, anymore. The last time he’d stuck around anywhere for longer than a few months had been a few years earlier, and that, too, had gone tits up in a spectacularly horrifying way. And Aziraphale knows this perfectly well, had, after all, found him again after, when it had all been over and he’d tried and failed to drown his grief in Jerusalem’s shittiest tavern. He’d thought — he’d hoped — that the angel would have more decency and kindness than to rub it in his face. Satan, but he hates being wrong.

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation.”

“Tempting anyone special?”

“Emperor Caligula. Appalling enough all on his own, didn’t need me to interfere any.” Crowley drains his cup and all but slams it on the bar counter. Why won’t the angel just take the bloody hint and leave? Just making conversation, his bony arse. He’s clearly been in Rome for some time, looks well-settled and right at home, and has decided to show it off. Probably has a whole bunch of friends, as well. How great for him.

“Well, I was sent here to influence a boy called Nero. But after that, I had nothing else to do, so I decided to settle down here for a bit. The people are lovely, and the art — the theatre! And, of course, the food is excellent, as well.”

Naturally. Crowley makes a noncommittal noise and disguises an eye roll by taking a sip from his freshly-refilled cup.

“Today, I thought I’d try Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”

“I’ve never eaten an oyster.” Fancy restaurants are not his thing; he’s only ever visited them when he needed to perform a temptation. The angel knows this, too. Soon enough, he’ll get tired of having his conversational overtures rebuffed and leave, and then Crowley’ll be able to go back to his drinking in peace.

“Oh! Well, let me tempt you to —”

Crowley forgets himself enough to stare. Is the angel seriously —

Aziraphale has the audacity to grin at him. “Oh. No, no, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

“You’re inviting me to have lunch with you,” Crowley checks, carefully. If that’s what Aziraphale truly intends, he might even take him up on it — it certainly sounds more enjoyable than his original plan of drinking by himself until he stops caring about how alone he feels — but there’s no sense in appearing over-eager and making himself look like a fool. The angel might just be being polite.

“If you’d like. Even if you’re not intending to stay, I thought we might spend some time together, before you have to leave.” Aziraphale sounds a little awkward, a little stilted, but entirely earnest. “The restaurant is not far from here. I was going to go by myself, but —”

Crowley drains his cup again and sets it down, more gently this time. “Yeah, alright.”

* * *

The oysters aren’t anything special — briny, chewy, frankly too slimy to be enjoyable to eat. But Aziraphale very clearly loves them, and what’s more, he appears to genuinely delight in Crowley’s company, as well. He’s been keeping up the conversation since they left the tavern, talking about anything and everything — mostly books he’s read and plays he’s seen — and seemingly not minding that Crowley isn’t contributing much at all.

“And I saw Seneca’s newest, the _Medea_ , recently, and I have to say, I found it quite the improvement over Euripides’ —”

“No, hang on, that’s ridiculous.” Crowley can’t help but interject, because it _is_. “All he’s really done is add more violence to it, hasn’t he? And changed the characters around a bit, but that’s hardly the earth-shattering improvement you’re making it sound like.”

Aziraphale’s bright, brilliant smile is a thing of wonder. “You’ve _seen_ it?”

“Eh, I had an afternoon free, is all.” He is not about to tell the angel he’d gone to the theatre hoping to catch the emperor there, and had ended up so distracted by the play he hadn’t noticed him arriving or leaving. “Really wasn’t that good. And the subject matter…” He makes a disparaging noise. “I don’t see the point in going to the theatre just to feel more depressed than before you went. Give me a funny story, any day.”

“You’ve heard of the concept of catharsis, surely, my dear boy.” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows as if in challenge.

“Catharsis, schmatharsis.” Crowley pulls a face. “You get that just as well from a play with a bunch of jokes and a happy ending. Nobody says you have to end in gruesome murder.”

“Well, Aristotle —”

“Is overrated,” Crowley cuts him off.

_“Overrated?”_ Aziraphale’s face is the very picture of utter outrage, and it startles a laugh out of Crowley; and the laugh earns him such a wounded, mournful look that he immediately feels guilty.

“To be fair, I’ve not read _Poetics_ in quite a while,” he says, in what he hopes is a conciliatory enough manner. “And it’s just my opinion, anyway, which probably doesn’t count for much. You’re the one with the literature habit.”

Aziraphale’s expression softens, and he mutters something under his breath that Crowley doesn’t quite catch, but that sounds very much like “you’re being kind to me again”. Which can’t be the case, because when has Crowley ever been kind to him?

“Angel?” Crowley prompts, when the pause stretches close to the point of being uncomfortable.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I do own a copy,” he says, primly, “should you wish to reacquaint yourself with all the ways in which you are wrong.” There is an obvious challenge in his tone and his expression, but also something else that Crowley can’t quite put his finger on.

“Only if you’ll come with me to the theatre a few times,” Crowley says, without thinking. “See a few comedies, realise what you’re missing.”

Aziraphale blinks. “I thought you weren’t staying in Rome.”

_Then why on Earth would you offer to loan me a book?_ Crowley doesn’t ask. Instead, he bares his teeth in one of his signature not-quite-a-smiles. “I can spare a few days to make sure you see the error of your ways.”

For some reason, that makes Aziraphale smile brightly again.

Crowley ends up staying four months in Rome before another assignment from Hell forces him to leave. He tells himself it’s not because he wants to see that smile as often as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based myself on the script book to expand the scene in the tavern, though I didn't quite keep all the dialogue the same. Also, I fudged the date of [Seneca’s Medea](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medea_\(Seneca\)) a little bit — I wanted something literature-related for Aziraphale and Crowley to discuss, and this was the easiest way that didn't involve me spending days on a Wikipedia dive.


	3. The Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD

# The Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD

“Be easier if we both stayed home.” Not that he has a home to stay in, or return to; but he’s certain Aziraphale does, and he’s not beyond using that to be more persuasive. “If we just sent messages back to our head offices saying we’d done everything they’d asked for, wouldn’t it?”

“But that would be lying!” And there’s the offended shock Crowley was expecting, right on cue. Of course lying would be a sticking point for the angel.

“Ehhhh… possibly, but the end result would be the same.” He wouldn’t be suggesting this if he thought it might harm anything. “Cancel each other out.”

“But, my dear fellow… well, they’d check!” Aziraphale’s smile is brief and stilted, more a nervous tic than anything else. “Michael’s — a bit of a stickler. You don’t want to get Gabriel upset with you.”

_Michael’s a wanker, Gabriel’s a bully_ , Crowley translates in his head, not liking the distant look in Aziraphale’s eyes at all. Having broached the subject, though, he can’t back down so swiftly. It’d be even more suspicious than his having made the suggestion at all. “Oh, our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from Earth. As long as they get the paperwork —” Aziraphale shakes his head minutely, a quick, jerky motion that’s almost a twitch; and Crowley finds himself trailing off, too distracted by the implications of Aziraphale’s reactions to focus on being truly persuasive. “— they seem to be happy enough — as long as you’re being seen to be doing _something_ , every now and again…”

“No! Absolutely not!” Aziraphale snaps. “I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We’re not having this conversation. Not another word!”

If Crowley didn’t have the benefit of thousands of years of acquaintance, he might even believe that the expression on Aziraphale’s face as he turns away is anger; but he does, and he knows it for what it truly is. And so he lets it go. “Right.”

“Right.” Aziraphale stalks off.

Crowley pulls his helm’s visor down, the loud clank masking his sigh. His wide, exasperated shrug is purely for the benefit of his human audience.

* * *

Aziraphale finds him again later that day. He should’ve left, he knows he should have, but he’s never much liked the cold and damp; and so, with the help of a small miracle to disguise himself as a servant, he’s taken refuge in the kitchen of the nearby castle, wrapping himself in his thin cloak and huddling in front of the fireplace. The fire has long since died down, smoldering embers all that’s left of it, but it still helps.

“Fomenting dissent and discord in the kitchen now, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, very mildly.

“I’m not the one sneaking down to the kitchen after hours for an extra helping of dessert,” Crowley replies, just as mild, eyeing the three fruit tarts on the plate in Aziraphale’s hands. “It’s alright, I won’t tell if you don’t. I’ll be gone before anyone wakes. Just didn’t feel like spending one more night freezing my arse off in a flimsy tent.”

Aziraphale gives him a long, considering look. “You know, I have a proper fire going in my rooms. And wine.”

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale’s very occasional invitations are rarely this direct. “Might you be inclined to share those fruit tarts, also?” Aziraphale clutches the plate closer to himself, and Crowley chuckles. “Thought not.”

“There are a few more on the table over there,” Aziraphale says. “Some meat pies, as well.”

“Oh, are there?” Crowley pulls himself to his feet and goes to investigate. He’d been more interested in warmth than food, but if he can have both… “I was certain you would’ve grabbed them all.”

“I think you’ll find that I am, in fact, possessed of some self-restraint,” Aziraphale says, with an admirable attempt at sounding dignified that is entirely foiled by his protectiveness of his late-night snack.

Torn between his ever-present urge to needle Aziraphale and his desire to curl up in front of an actual fire with some good wine, Crowley opts for the safest course of action, and says nothing. Instead, he grabs a plate and piles it high with meat pies, then grabs two fruit tarts for good measure. It’s been a while since he’s had proper food. True, he technically doesn’t need to eat, and he doesn’t love it the way Aziraphale does, but it’s enjoyable. Miracled-up food just isn’t the same, and looks incredibly suspicious besides, when living in a camp with a small group of humans who are subsisting on thin gruel and whatever they manage to hunt.

Aziraphale gives him another long look, eyebrows raised.

“What?” Crowley grins and filches one last fruit tart, sauntering over to Aziraphale and depositing it on his plate.

Aziraphale just shakes his head, an odd expression on his face that Crowley might even describe as fond, if it wasn’t that — well. If they weren’t what they are.

“Lead the way, then, angel,” he says, a little awkwardly, after a moment of silence.

* * *

Aziraphale’s rooms are indeed much warmer than the kitchen, and Crowley doesn’t bother smothering his relieved, pleased groan as he sinks down to sit cross-legged on the plush rug in front of the roaring fire.

“I feel like I ought to apologise for earlier,” Aziraphale says, a little stiffly, as he pours wine from a large jug into two cups. “I did not mean to —”

“Ah, nah, don’t worry about it,” Crowley says, around a large mouthful of meat pie. “‘S fine. Was just a thought.” A thought that he now feels surprisingly guilty about, not that he’d ever admit it. Aziraphale is very obviously afraid of what the consequences might be, and — he doesn’t really need such an arrangement, wouldn’t benefit from it that much, not like Crowley would. His work might require him to be out in the cold and damp, but every night he gets to retire to his comfortable, well-appointed rooms, full of personal touches and very clearly a home to him. He would be risking just as much as Crowley — more, possibly — for a much smaller potential reward.

Aziraphale presses his lips together in a thin line, his usually mobile face transforming for a moment into a fixed, expressionless mask; then he sighs, joining Crowley in front of the fireplace and handing him a cup of wine. “I do have a table, you know.”

Crowley takes another bite of pie before replying, just because he knows him talking with his mouth full bothers Aziraphale. An irritated angel is better than an expressionless one. “Warmer here.”

Aziraphale’s next sigh is accompanied by an exasperated roll of his eyes. “Must you?”

Crowley swallows and grins, all teeth, before taking another bite. “‘S good pie.”

“You’ve no manners,” Aziraphale says, sounding almost despairing.

“That,” Crowley says, waggling the half-eaten pie at Aziraphale, “is slander, that is. I do, too, have manners. I just pick and choose when to use ‘em.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch up in a smile that, though small, looks entirely genuine. “Ah, of course. My mistake.”

Crowley chuckles and pats the space next to him. “Sit down, angel. Have a meat pie.”

* * *

They drink and eat and talk late into the night, and all the way into the early hours of the morning. Crowley knows this can’t last, knows he ought to leave, but he’s warm and comfortable and feels like he can let his guard down for the first time in an age; and so he does, and, inevitably, he falls asleep, lulled by Aziraphale’s soft voice.

When he wakes up, Aziraphale is conspicuously absent, but the feeling of warmth and comfort and safety is still there. The fire is still crackling merrily in the fireplace, very obviously maintained by an angelic miracle; Aziraphale’s soft, thick woolen cloak is laid over him like a blanket. There is a covered plate of food on the table.

There is also a note, carefully penned and folded, a corner of it pinned under the plate. It says:

> _I will be gone a few days. Stay, if you wish. Nobody will notice._
> 
> _Keep the cloak. Yours is clearly unsuitable for the weather._
> 
> _— A._

Crowley scoffs, balls up the note and tosses it in the fireplace. He doesn’t need the angel’s bloody charity.

But he does take the cloak with him when he leaves.


	4. Italy, 1021

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I showed the whole fic to a friend and got keysmashed at in reaction, so, in celebration of that, have an extra chapter. :D

# Italy, 1021

It’s a lovely town. Or, well, it will be, once it’s done being built. For now, it’s a large manor clearly belonging to landed gentry, a few smaller stately homes for the well-off, a church, a pilgrim hospice, a remarkably shitty tavern, and a whole cluster of extremely ramshackle dwellings that look on the verge of collapse. And, of course, an incomplete castle wall, which is why he’s here. For some reason, Hell really wants to keep it from being finished; three other demons have tried and failed due to angelic interference, and now it’s his turn.

All of this, he was expecting. He is also not surprised that the angelic interference in question is Aziraphale, who has, over the millennia, proven to be extremely efficient at thwarting; thus, he got here already expecting that he, like the other demons who’d come before him, would not succeed.

What he had not expected was to find Aziraphale collapsed in a corner of the aforementioned shitty tavern, barely conscious. At first, he’d thought the angel was simply completely sloshed, and had been ready to mock him soundly for it; but a failed attempt at sobering him up had revealed that the cause was not extreme inebriation, but utter exhaustion.

It takes him longer than it should’ve to get Aziraphale conscious enough to point out which of the fancy houses is his; it takes him the better part of an entire bloody _day_ to get enough information out of him to piece together what, exactly, is happening here.

Apparently, Gabriel, utter prat that he is, had gotten on Aziraphale’s back about using too many frivolous miracles; Aziraphale had, thoughtlessly, responded that he was quite capable of determining how much he could spare on making his life on Earth not wholly unpleasant while still remaining capable of doing his job, thank you _very_ much. And never mind that Crowley would’ve given anything to see Gabriel’s stupid face when that happened — one does not snipe at Archangels without consequences, and Aziraphale knew that. He’d immediately apologised, and thought everything was fine.

A month later, he’d gotten a new assignment. He was to take care of this town until the castle wall was built; he was to spare no expense of miracles to ensure nothing bad happened at all, to any of its inhabitants, permanent or transient. No work delays, no crises of faith, no illnesses, no injuries, not even so much as a blister on the foot of a pilgrim just passing through on the way to Rome or wherever else.

Aziraphale had, of course, accepted the assignment without complaint, and proceeded to run himself ragged doing his best to fulfill it, also without complaint. A whole _decade_ , the angel has been here, collapsing in sheer exhaustion every so often and then having to play endless catch-up with all the human issues that had arisen while he was unconscious, and having to fend off demonic interference besides.

The wall is nearly done, only a week of work left, give or take; and Aziraphale is delirious with fatigue, drifting in and out of consciousness. It’s simple enough to put him into a dreamless sleep, and it would be so easy to keep him in that condition for just long enough to work out a way to permanently sabotage the wall. A sinkhole forming under part of it, perhaps, or maybe simply giving the lord of one of the neighbouring territories the idea to annex this town by force. It would be so, so easy. Especially since Aziraphale seems, for whatever reason, to almost unquestioningly trust him.

Yeah, no. Fuck that.

* * *

The first day he mostly spends getting the lay of the land. A surprising number of the town’s current issues are demonic in origin; it seems that whoever Hell had sent before him had actually been competent. Well — sort of, given how most of the issues will very swiftly solve themselves without the upkeep he has no intention of giving them. A truly competent demon would’ve made every single one self-sustaining. Either way, getting rid of those is easy, and undoing the self-sustaining ones without alerting whoever set them up only marginally harder.

The second day he spends fixing what human issues he can. The shacks where the builders live get a wide-ranging miracle to ensure they won’t fall over, and another to make them a little more pleasant to live in; the start of a dysentery epidemic is swiftly eradicated. He inspires the local duke to increase the pay of both the builders and their families, and inspires the builders themselves to work as hard as possible to ensure that the wall will be finished on schedule.

There are a few long-term injuries among the workers that he can’t do much about, mostly broken bones; all he can do there without giving himself away is ensure they’ll heal quickly and without consequences. For good measure, he sets up a generalised blessing on the pilgrim hospice, ensuring anyone entering or leaving finds themselves in as close to perfect health as possible. He can tell that Aziraphale had done the same, and that it had dissipated when the angel had fallen unconscious.

On the third day, he goes to Hell. He spends most of the day there, bitching loudly to anyone who will listen about the stupid angel who is protecting the town of Castello, and how obnoxiously competent he is, thwarting his wiles and foiling him at every turn, and how he’s already been threatened by him and is risking a lethal smiting just by remaining in the town. In the process, he tracks down the other demons who’d been sent there before him, and they join him in complaining how unfair this all is, how much of a losing battle it is, how it’s hardly their fault the angel is so effective at what he does. Eventually, Beelzebub is forced to come out of their office, looking extremely aggrieved, to deal with the ruckus; before they lose their temper and kick him back to Earth, he manages to extract a promise that there will be no consequences if he fails.

Having thus established himself as punishment-proof, at least in this particular case, he spends the fourth day very blatantly causing issues, and then very subtly fixing them. Realistically, he could probably just save his energy and do nothing, but despite what Beelzebub says, Hell might want a report — and Heaven definitely will. It’s better not to lie too much, at least to start with.

The fifth day goes very similarly, though one of the workers accidentally falls off the wall and he has very hurriedly miracle the stack of planks where he would’ve landed into a stack of hay, instead. The man breaks a leg, but the fall isn’t lethal. It’s the best he could do at such short notice — he hopes it won’t be a demerit on Aziraphale’s record.

On the morning of the sixth day, the wall is completed. Crowley spends the rest of the day finishing Aziraphale’s report for him, doing his best to match the handwriting. It would be preferable if Aziraphale wrote it himself, of course; but Heaven will be expecting to receive the report soon, and he doesn’t know how much longer Aziraphale will stay unconscious, since the miracle he used to put him to sleep in the first place was aimed at getting him the rest he so badly needed. He may have to send the report to Heaven himself.

On the seventh day, Aziraphale wakes.

He wakes in a panic, and Crowley can feel him scrambling for his power, running metaphorical fingers over the weave of the town and checking for what issues may have arisen while he was out of it.

And he can tell, looking at Aziraphale’s face, the exact moment he realises that he can find none, and the wall is done. The angel looks around, almost frantically, and freezes when he spots him. “Crowley?” he asks, in a very small voice.

“‘Lo, angel.”

“Why are you — what did you _do?”_ Aziraphale’s voice cracks on the last word.

Crowley shrugs, doing his best to seem casual. “I was sent here to interfere with the wall. So I interfered.”

“But…” Aziraphale is frowning in confusion, his forehead scrunching in a way that is absolutely not adorable and definitely doesn’t make Crowley want to smooth it out with a thumb.

“As it turns out, you’re incredibly good at thwarting demonic wiles. I tried my hardest, but was ultimately unsuccessful. It’s all in your report.” He takes the bundle of papers from the desk and hands it over.

Aziraphale immediately turns to the last page — the one that had previously been blank — and reads; then looks up at him again. “You — why?”

Over the past week, he’s considered, often, what he might say to excuse this, and has come up with several options, all of them quite believable. But in the face of the angel’s bewildered gratitude, all he can muster is — “‘S what friends do, isn’t it? Help each other.”

“Friends,” Aziraphale repeats, quietly, tracing the lines of the report with a finger. “Is that what we are?”

Well — he’d like that; but Aziraphale probably doesn’t. “Not enemies, at least?” he hazards. “I’m not saying we should help each other all the time, and you definitely shouldn’t feel obliged to return the favour — I know you said no when I suggested an arrangement like that back in Wessex, I heard you, I’m not trying to be pushy, I swear — but at least this time, I could help, so I saw no reason not to.”

Except there had been plenty of reasons, plenty of things he stood to gain from acting against Aziraphale, and they both know it. He would definitely have gotten a commendation, possibly a promotion, maybe even a dukedom if Beelzebub was feeling particularly generous. But then, all he’d have gotten out of _that_ would’ve been the need to watch his back even more than he already does. He’s fine as he is.

“You won’t get in trouble?” Aziraphale asks, hesitantly.

“Nah, ‘s how I told you before. My lot don’t really care to keep track of things too closely. Far as they know, I tried my hardest, but was unfortunately thwarted. It helps that three others before me tried and failed.”

“They were very rude,” Aziraphale says, primly. “They tried to imply I had no idea how to do my job properly, so I may as well save my energy and just give up, as it was inevitable that I would lose.”

Crowley snorts. He could’ve told the idiots that would not go well. “You got Belphegor particularly good. He was still faintly smoking when I saw him, all singed around the edges.”

“Oh, thank you, I rather thought I did.” Aziraphale smiles, quick and bright, pleased with himself. “Though — they would’ve been right, in the end. If you hadn’t been sent here, if you hadn’t decided to help —”

“Eh. Wall was a week out from being finished. It’d have been fine. Now come on — you’d best rewrite the report. I know I didn’t manage to get your handwriting exactly right, and I bet I got things wrong about the format, too. And then I’ll take you somewhere nice for lunch, how does that sound? Padua, maybe, or Vicenza. Wherever you want, as long as it has actual options beyond ‘mystery meatloaf of the week’.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful —” Aziraphale is interrupted by the growling of his own stomach, and blushes. “It’s only — I got rather used to eating regularly, you see, and —”

Crowley laughs. “I’ll go find you a snack.”

* * *

Finding a snack proves harder and more time-consuming than he’d thought it would be. Fortunately, there is an orchard nearby, and apples are in season.

When he makes it back to Aziraphale’s house half an hour later, he finds him sitting at his desk, staring expressionlessly at a gleaming, sealed scroll that can only be an angelic commendation. He must’ve finished the report and sent it, then; and Heaven, as expected, must’ve taken it at face value.

“Here, angel. Got you that snack you wanted.” He tosses one of the apples to Aziraphale, who catches it entirely on reflex — and then freezes and stares down at it, eyes wide, turning it over and over in his hands.

Crowley winces, realising only then what it looks like when the original tempter offers an angel an apple. He really should’ve just come back empty-handed. He opens his mouth, already thinking how best to phrase an apology —

— but Aziraphale looks up at him and, very deliberately, takes a bite of the apple. “Tell me more about this arrangement you had in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The walled town is somewhat inspired by the city where I grew up, although I changed a few details and moved the date it was founded a few centuries earlier to allow for matching the canonical date of the Arrangement.


	5. London, 1213

# London, 1213

He’d gotten too comfortable again. Too comfortable, and _stupid_.

But he’d been so _tired_ of not having anywhere he could properly call home, of living out of rented rooms in bits and pieces and never staying anywhere for longer than a month or two; and Aziraphale had started making vague noises about wanting to settle down somewhere for good, in London, perhaps.

And he had thought, what’s the harm?

He’d bought himself a small house, just south of London Bridge. It wasn’t much, but it was his. He’d started making acquaintances with the neighbours. He’d found the perfect spot in the house for each of his little souvenirs, every item he’d decided was worth keeping through the millennia, every little thing that mattered to him for one reason or the other.

He’d had two years of peace.

And then Hastur had showed up to inform him of his new assignment; he was to go to Spain, and stay a year there. The assignment was a laundry list of petty temptations, nothing that required him specifically, but he hadn’t survived thousands of years by asking “why don’t you just send Legion, this seems more like his speed”. And so he’d gone.

When he’d come back, nothing had been left of his home — of his neighbours — of great swathes of London. Nothing but ashes.

And he cannot prove anything, he cannot be certain Hastur had anything at all to do with it, but —

He gets the message. He understands.

He is as he has ever been, poison to anything he touches. And he does not get to have a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Great Fire of 1212](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Early_fires_of_London#The_Great_Fire_of_1212).


	6. London, 1800

# London, 1800

_That was too close_ , is Crowley’s first thought. If he hadn’t accidentally gotten caught up in the confusion caused by a carriage accident he himself had engineered, he’d have arrived at Aziraphale’s new bookshop long before Gabriel and Sandalphon, not immediately after.

His second thought is, _what are they saying that’s making Aziraphale look so upset, and how can I fix it?_

And really, if he had any sense or, for that matter, a functioning self-preservation instinct, he ought to ignore that second thought and just leave. He knows this.

He moves closer nevertheless.

“It’s an excellent idea,” Gabriel is saying. “Whoever replaces you down here can obviously use it as a base of operations.”

“Use my bookshop?” To anyone who doesn’t know him well — and Crowley has no doubts, by now, that the Archangels count among that number — Aziraphale would appear to be simply confused.

But Crowley knows that look, and it’s not confusion. It’s heartbreak.

So his third thought is not quite a thought, but more like a furious urge to punch the Archangel Gabriel right in his stupid face.

“You’re being promoted,” Gabriel says. “You get to come home.”

And Crowley has to duck around the corner of a building, take a few deep, unnecessary breaths and dig his fingers into the brickwork until it cracks to keep the urge in check, because the thing is —

Yeah, Aziraphale has, in many ways, had it easier than him, through the millennia. He’s had a measure of relative freedom in deciding where to stay and for how long, has had comfortable places he could call home without an ounce of sarcasm. He has never been chased out of anywhere with torches and pitchforks, has never lost absolutely everything to flood or fire or spite.

But he’s been talking about settling down properly in London and opening a bookshop for centuries upon centuries; and for just as long, he’s been fretting about what might happen if he did and then Heaven assigned him elsewhere for an extended period of time. Fretting in a way that made it sound like it was not so much a worry as an expectation.

After centuries upon centuries of staying in London the vast majority of the time, of Heaven mostly ignoring him, of his superiors being utterly content to leave him to his own devices as long as he put in regular reports, Aziraphale has finally taken the leap, and purchased a building, and set up his bookshop.

And, right on time, here is Gabriel, praising Aziraphale for having had the moral fortitude to remain on Earth for this long, and bringing the “good news” of a “promotion” back upstairs.

_You get to come home_. As if Gabriel doesn’t know perfectly well that Aziraphale has made Earth his home, and that’s the whole point of the bookshop.

And, of course, the whole reason why Gabriel wants to take it away.

Well, fuck that. Not on his watch.

* * *

Between one thing and the other — one thing being deceiving Gabriel into letting Aziraphale stay on Earth, and the other being wanting to be absolutely sure Gabriel and Sandalphon are gone — it’s late evening by the time Crowley makes it back to the bookshop. The curtains are pulled, and the door is shut; but the moment he raises his hand to knock, he hears the locks on it sliding open.

“Aziraphale?” he calls out, pushing his way into the bookshop. “I brought wine and chocolates.”

“So I see,” Aziraphale says, quietly, from where he’s standing in the doorway to the back room. “Tell me you had nothing to do with this.”

He could dissemble, he could pretend he has no idea what Aziraphale is talking about, but — “You know I’m not in the habit of lying to you.” He holds out the wine and chocolates to Aziraphale; when the angel doesn’t seem to even notice them, he carefully sets them down on the nearest shelf.

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale sounds very close to tears. “If he’d realised —”

“Fortunately, he didn’t.” _And even if he had, it would have been worth it_ , he doesn’t say. That wouldn’t help. “Stop looking at me like that, c’mon. It was entirely self-serving. Can you imagine me having to deal with Michael? I’d end up trying to run for my life, and failing, before the first day was over. And then I’d be stuck in Hell, all the way at the back of the queue for a new body. Unless I misremember, it’s still in the four digits, from that one time Michael showed up down here a few millennia ago and Hell decided to throw a few cohorts at her.”

Aziraphale’s raised eyebrows say he knows full well that Crowley is trying to divert the conversation. “Indeed, tempting the righteous fury of Archangels is generally held to be unwise.”

“Which is why I spent those few months literally on the moon, yes.” That had not been a fun time, but it had been better than running afoul of Michael would’ve been.

“And yet today…” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Tell me why, at least.”

_Because you deserve a home they won’t take away from you, even if I’ll never have one._ “Friends help each other.”

“But the Arrangement doesn’t require you to risk your life. Gabriel might not have stopped at a simple smiting — you could’ve been destroyed! I never would have agreed to the Arrangement if —”

Crowley holds up a hand to forestall further protests. “I get your point. Look, it’s been a long day, and I really could use a drink. How’s this — you let me take you out for dinner, and we forget all this, and I will consider more carefully before doing something like this next time?”

“Swear it to me.” Aziraphale’s eyes are bright and intent.

“I swear,” Crowley says, easily. It’s not a lie. He will, indeed, give everything due consideration next time, because, with hindsight, he can see a number of ways things might’ve gone very badly wrong today. But what he isn’t promising is that he will not interfere again.

Aziraphale studies him for a long, silent moment, then relents. “Very well. Where were you thinking, for dinner?”

“Anywhere you want to go. I’m not as familiar as you with the London restaurant scene.”

Aziraphale hums. “There’s an oyster bar that opened recently in Maiden Lane; I’ve been meaning to check it out. Would that suit?”

“Absolutely.” Even almost two millennia after first trying oysters, he still doesn’t really like them; but this is more for Aziraphale’s benefit than his own. “Lead the way, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the unfilmed bookshop opening scene in the script book. The oyster bar mentioned is Rules, one of London’s oldest restaurants.


	7. London, 1862

# London, 1862

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I’d be in if — if they knew I’d been — fraternising? It’s completely out of the question.”

“Fraternising?” Crowley is bewildered, and more than a little hurt. He’d have thought they were beyond this, by now.

“Well, whatever you wish to call it,” Aziraphale bites out. “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

Friendship, Crowley would’ve called it.

But Aziraphale —

_Friends. Is that what we are?_

_Oh, he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other._

_And some wine for my comrade here, to celebrate — er — the freedom of the people!_

_But the Arrangement doesn’t require you to risk your life._

Aziraphale clearly doesn’t feel the same; and Crowley really, really should’ve seen this. Should’ve seen it centuries ago.

“I have lots of other people to _fraternise_ with, angel,” he spits out.

“Of _course_ you do,” Aziraphale retorts, having the sheer gall to sound offended — _offended!_ — and turning to walk away.

“I don’t need you,” Crowley manages. And that’s a lie, he knows it’s a fucking lie, it might even be the first lie he’s knowingly told Aziraphale, but if he says it sharply enough, often enough, maybe it’ll be true. There had been a time, in the past, when he didn’t feel like he needed the angel. He can get back to that.

“Well, and the feeling is mutual,” Aziraphale turns back to say. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Crowley mimics, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t feel alone, or bereft, or abandoned. He _doesn’t_.

* * *

He should leave it alone. He knows he should. Asking for holy water was a perfectly reasonable request, and he cannot be blamed for how Aziraphale reacted to it. If they were friends, there might still be something there, a relationship for him to try and mend, but Aziraphale has made it perfectly clear where they stand with each other.

Which, of course, is why Crowley is currently sitting at the table in his rented rooms, trying and failing to draft an apology letter. He’s been at it for hours, and has made no progress beyond wasting an entire ream of paper.

It’s not that he can’t think of anything to say. It’s that there is so much he wants to tell, too much. He would need pages upon pages upon pages; and he knows Aziraphale is unlikely to be inclined to read even a short letter from him, so a lengthy one would be almost certainly discarded unread. He needs to keep it brief, but everything he tries feels — insufficient. Incomplete. Wrong.

In the end, there’s only one thing for him to do, though it goes against every last one of his instincts.

He moves to the centre of the room and, as cautiously as he can, shakes out his wings. The room is small, and his wings are big; despite the care he’s taken, he very nearly knocks his right wing on the ceiling, and his left sweeps everything off the desk. Ugh. This is why he doesn’t groom his wings anywhere near as often as he’d like to. If ever he is able to buy a place of his own again, he’s definitely going for huge rooms with tall ceilings. How Aziraphale manages in the bookshop, crammed full of books as it is, he will never know.

It doesn’t take him very long to rifle through his wings until he finds a feather that’s about to come loose anyway, one of his smallest coverts. He pulls it off his wing, very gently, then goes to hunt through the mess of papers and other items that got knocked to the floor for an envelope.

He is being foolish and reckless, and he knows it entirely too well. There are a great many things an angel who is not his friend, who was never his friend, might do with one of his feathers, and none of them pleasant. But in spite of everything, he’d like to think he still knows Aziraphale; in spite of everything, he still trusts him. He doesn’t think there will ever come a time when he will not.

It’s reckless, and it’s foolish, and it’s the only thing he can think to do that even remotely makes sense, the only message that feels like it might reach across the ever-widening rift between them. He’ll put his life in Aziraphale’s hands, and hope that makes it clear that it was never his intent to risk it in any other way, for any other reason.

He slips the feather into the envelope and miracles it directly to Aziraphale’s desk in the bookshop, not bothering to write a message to accompany it. He knows that the angel will sense its appearance, and that there will be no mistaking its origin.

* * *

He stays in London three more months. There is no word from Aziraphale.

Eventually, Hell gets in touch to send him on an assignment to Australia, with entirely unsubtle instructions to not let the convicts who are settling there forget who they are and what they have done.

He knows it ought to feel like a punishment; that is, after all, what it’s intended to be.

It doesn’t. It almost feels like mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m fudging dates again, since by 1862, the [transportation of convicts to Australia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convicts_in_Australia) had already mostly ceased.


	8. London, 1941

# London, 1941

The drive back to the bookshop is quiet and tense. Aziraphale won’t look him in the eye; instead, he is staring fixedly down at his lap, hands clutched on the handle of his satchel of books so tightly his knuckles are white.

“Well, here we are,” Crowley says, uselessly.

“Would —” Aziraphale’s voice comes out almost strangled. He clears his throat, and tries again. “Won’t you come inside, my — my dear?”

There’s hesitation there, and Crowley hates it. It’s been almost a hundred years; he’d hoped things might be different. In the church, Aziraphale had seemed genuinely glad to see him, but… “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No imposition,” Aziraphale says, very softly, looking up at him at last. “I — have missed your company.”

He ought to say no. He ought to say no, or at least be biting, be snide, point out that if Aziraphale really had missed his company, he could’ve gotten in touch. It’s not like he’s a hard demon to find, especially not for an angel who holds one of his feathers. But Aziraphale’s stormcloud eyes are glimmering strangely in the almost-darkness, and there’s an odd expression on his face that Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever seen before and can’t quite read; and bless it all, he _wants_ to stay, even if all they are to be to each other is polite, occasionally inimical acquaintances. It’s not the friendship he’d hoped for, nor what he dreams of, which is something entirely else that he doesn’t even dare name — but he’ll take what he can get. “Yeah, alright.”

Aziraphale lets out an explosive breath and reaches for the door of the Bentley, then hesitates. “How do I —”

“The handle.” Crowley points. “No — that’s the window crank. The other one.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale successfully opens the door and exits the car. “You know, I don’t understand the need for these newfangled vehicles.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, climbing out as well and setting his hand on the bonnet to refresh the complex set of miracles keeping the Bentley unnoticed and out of harm’s way, just in case. “They’ve been around for quite a while now. Consider living in the present for a change, perhaps.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Carriages were perfectly lovely. I don’t understand what was wrong with them, that they needed to be replaced.”

“Other than having to deal with horses, you mean?” Crowley says, very dryly.

Aziraphale’s choked-off laugh sounds like it’s been startled out of him against his will. “Yes, aside from that.”

Crowley shrugs. “I can only speak for myself. I like the look of it, and it goes faster than carriages. Safer, too.” He can’t really explain it to Aziraphale beyond that, is the thing. He wouldn’t understand. Part of it, absolutely, is that the Bentley’s beautiful, all sleek lines and gleaming black paint, and that it’s fast. That’s what had originally drawn him to it; but that’s not why he loves it.

He’s in Hell’s good graces right now — bad graces, whatever, the point is, they like him a lot, they think he started this bloody war, after all, and the previous one as well — and he’s managed to persuade them that having his own means of transportation will make him a lot more efficient when he needs to travel for an assignment; and besides, it’s also very effective at inspiring greed and envy in humans.

And so, he loves the Bentley because it’s _his_ , and he can be absolutely certain that it won’t be taken away from him. It’s not a home, of course it isn’t, but it’s close enough. It’s the closest he’ll ever get.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is holding the bookshop door open for him, and that hesitant, almost wounded look is back on his face.

Crowley winces. “Sorry, angel. Was lost in thought.”

Aziraphale nods, as if by saying that, Crowley had answered a question of some sort. “After you,” he says, gesturing towards the open door with a hand.

The bookshop, Crowley notes as he approaches, is as extensively and thoroughly warded as it had been the last time he was here, perhaps more; and the wards are, surprisingly, still set to allow him to enter without needing to be invited.

The moment he steps over the threshold, however, the wards flare, and he is almost brought to his knees by the sharp, burning pain in his feet.

Aziraphale blanches and catches him as he stumbles. “Oh, Crowley, I am so sorry. I ought to have thought, I ought to just have dropped the wards entirely.”

“Don’t be idiotic, Aziraphale,” Crowley bites out. It comes out sharper than he’d intended it, but he can, he thinks, be forgiven for that. If stepping on the consecrated church floor had been like being at the beach in bare feet, this is like having a nice, meandering walk through boiling lava. “You absolutely should not be thinking that you ought to have needlessly endangered your home on my account. You couldn’t have known this would happen. Unless you’ve made it a habit of having demons visiting who’ve recently taken a stroll through consecrated ground?”

In lieu of a response, Aziraphale hoists Crowley up off the ground entirely, cradling him in his arms, and carries him into the bookshop that way — like a bride, Crowley’s traitorous brain supplies. A moment too late, Crowley remembers he shouldn’t be liking the idea quite so much; and so he yelps and squirms. “It’s fine,” he insists, “I’m fine, put me down, I can walk. Put me down!”

Aziraphale snorts and drops him, very unceremoniously, on the sofa behind the till. Crowley would swear there’s a visible puff of dust when he lands on it — which makes sense. The sofa was always his spot; Aziraphale himself favours the armchair.

“Oi!” Crowley protests.

Aziraphale gives him a long, quelling look. “Take off your shoes and socks. I shall be back in a jiffy.”

 _In a jiffy_ , Crowley mouths, incredulously, to Aziraphale’s retreating back. He doesn’t know what he’d expected from tonight, exactly, but he knows it’s not this.

By when Aziraphale returns, carrying a basin full of water and with a towel slung over one arm, Crowley’s shucked off his socks and shoes and is sprawled back on the sofa. His feet are throbbing abominably and still feel like they’re physically, literally on fire, so he has sincere doubts that water will help in any way whatsoever; but if it makes Aziraphale feel better about it, he’s game to try.

The water feels freezing cold when he dips his feet in, and he has to smother another yelp; but it very quickly warms up, then comes to a boil and actually starts evaporating. “Er. That doesn’t look good,” he says, awkwardly.

Aziraphale sighs, and sets his mouth in a flat line. “That’s what I expected would happen. Hold still, please. This may sting a bit.”

Normally, this would be where Crowley would point out that it’s unlikely that anything could possibly sting when it feels like his feet are about to burn off, and equally as unlikely that an angel could heal holy wounds on a demon; but Aziraphale, without waiting for permission, has reached forward, delicately grasped his right ankle and lifted his foot out of the water. As it turns out, that’s enough to make Crowley almost swallow his own tongue and spit out an incoherent string of mostly consonants rather than anything even remotely resembling actual words.

“Hold _still_ ,” Aziraphale repeats; and sets the palm of his hand flat on the sole of Crowley’s foot.

A moment later, Crowley feels the healing miracle run through him. It’s not unpleasant, a gentle, shivering sort of feeling like walking into a warm house when it’s freezing cold outside; he knows it’s unlikely to react well with the holy burns on his feet, though, so he braces himself —

And it doesn’t hurt.

Not only does the miracle itself not hurt; but his foot has stopped hurting, as well. Cautiously, he wiggles his toes, the motion tickling slightly where Aziraphale’s fingers are still resting against his sole. No burns.

What?

Aziraphale gives him a small, pleased smile, and gently sets the foot down. When he repeats the process on the other foot, Crowley is better prepared, and is able to figure out the inner workings of the miracle.

It’s his feather. Aziraphale has, somehow, worked out how to use his feather to —

What the fuck?

He’s always made it a habit to collect knowledge, especially knowledge that could be used against him; he’d thought he knew every last thing an angel could do with a demon’s feather. But he’d had no idea this was a possibility.

“There.” Aziraphale strokes the arch of his foot with a thumb, gently; and for one brief, heady, utterly fucking terrifying moment, Crowley would swear Aziraphale is about to kiss it. Even more terrifyingly, Crowley is quite certain he would not mind that at all.

And then the moment passes, pops and vanishes like a soap bubble. Aziraphale sets his foot down, vanishing the basin of water with a wave of his free hand and an awkward, self-deprecating smile. “Wine, my dear? Or tea, perhaps?”

Crowley has to clear his throat twice before he can manage words. “Tea is fine.” Normally he would go for the alcohol; but he’s already feeling dazed, almost drifting, and he doesn’t know where the night would take them, were they to misplace their hesitations and inhibitions at the bottom of one too many bottles. Doesn’t for one second believe he would ever be allowed to want that, but he does, he _does_ , and the thought is frightening in its enormity.

Aziraphale nods and vanishes in the direction of the kitchenette again, and Crowley takes a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes and leaning his head on the sofa’s backrest. It’s not about what he wants, it’s never about what he wants, it’s about what he can get — and they aren’t even friends. What he can get, really, is nothing at all. He needs to get a hold of himself.

Aziraphale returns, this time, bearing a tray with two teacups, a teapot, a sugar bowl, a milk jug and a tin of biscuits. “Here we are,” he says, setting the tray down on the low table between the armchair and the sofa. “I’ve already poured, but I suspect we may want refills, so I brought the teapot, also.” He sinks into the armchair, looking wearier and less poised than Crowley has seen him in a long time — not that Crowley has seen him at all for a long time — and takes one of the teacups.

Crowley takes the other, letting it warm his hands for a few moments before taking a cautious sip. It’s perfect, and the surprise must register on his face, because Aziraphale winces and gives him an apologetic look.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I ought to have asked. Do you not still take your tea with no milk and two sugars?”

“No — I mean, yes, I do, it’s perfect. I wouldn’t have expected you to remember. The last time we had tea together was, what —”

“Brighton, 1830. At the Bedford Hotel, if I recall correctly.”

“That seems likely.” And how the Heaven does Aziraphale even remember that? Crowley himself would’ve said he could only barely recall how he took his tea, he drinks it so rarely.

Aziraphale smiles at him, pulling the lid off the tin. “Biscuit?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Crowley helps himself to one. “Rationing not affecting you overmuch, is it?”

Aziraphale blushes faintly. “Ah, no. It might do, but I’ve taken to miracling what I can’t get through normal means.”

“Right.” Crowley takes another biscuit. They’re surprisingly good, for miracled stuff. “Heaven off your back about the frivolous miracles, then?”

“Not — precisely.” Aziraphale’s blush intensifies. “They may not be fully aware that I’m doing this.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve finally started leaving things out of your miracle reports,” Crowley exclaims, wide-eyed.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says, primly. “They know I’ve miracled various foodstuffs to help comfort those negatively affected by the war. They think it’s a marvellous idea.”

“But then — oh.” Crowley laughs out loud, utterly delighted. “You’ve merely neglected to inform them that you count yourself among that group. Clever.”

Aziraphale smiles, quick and bright, very obviously rather pleased with himself. “Yes, I rather thought so, too.”

It should be strange, how quickly they slip back into their old banter, as if they hadn’t been apart almost a hundred years; it should be, but it isn’t. They fit together like they always have, with an ease that cannot be dismissed, cannot be denied.

The tea runs out, and they inevitably turn to the wine, although they’re careful to sober up periodically. The night yawns and turns over, stretches into morning, flows softly, seamlessly into day, mellows into afternoon, then darkens into evening, tilts back into night; but Crowley finds himself only distantly aware of the passage of time, and he doesn’t think Aziraphale is faring much better, the both of them too focused on each other.

Eventually, near the end of the third night, Aziraphale gives him a look that is far too keen for their current level of sobriety. “Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I —” Aziraphale bites his lip, takes a too-large sip of wine, audibly gulps it down. “We’re friends. Aren’t we?”

“Yeah, angel,” Crowley says, trying steadfastly to ignore all the ways in which that question breaks his heart and puts it back together all at the same time. “Yeah. We’re friends.”


	9. Vietnam, 1950

# Vietnam, 1950

Crowley clicks the radio off and sags back in his chair in mingled relief and disbelief, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

He’s just been ordered to return to London permanently.

_Permanently_ , because whichever poor sod they’ve had trying to take care of things in Europe has apparently gotten himself discorporated _nineteen times_ over the course of the two years Crowley’s been assigned here, by, as Beelzebub put it, “that madman of an angel they’ve got set up in London”. It seems that Aziraphale has gotten more than a little smite-happy — imagine that. Who could have known that, beneath his carefully cultivated, unassuming, inoffensive, _soft_ exterior, the angel was a warrior?

Well, Crowley could, of course. He’s always known. But he’s never been on the receiving end of Aziraphale’s righteous fury himself, so he can hardly be faulted for forgetting to mention it. Really, Beelzebub should’ve kept the fact in mind themselves; surely it hasn’t been that long, relatively speaking, since Aziraphale so efficiently smote those three demons back in Italy. Alas.

Thus, Beelzebub had elected to contact him and inform him in no uncertain terms that he, as the only demon with a history of consistent success against this particular angel, was to relocate to London posthaste.

Of course, it wouldn’t do to appear too eager, so he’d protested. He’d barely been away from the mad angel’s territory two years, after all, and it was such a stressful, strenuous thing to do, dealing with him, constantly being on the alert. Had he not earned some respite?

Beelzebub’s reaction to that, predictably, had consisted entirely of buzzed incoherent threats, so loud and harsh that the radio had started smoking. He’d grovelled appropriately, and meekly asked how much time he would have to wrap up his demonic affairs here.

He’s expected to be in London in two days’ time, Beelzebub told him; a flat he can use as a permanent base of operations has already been prepared for him. It’s the fastest and most efficiently he’s ever been reassigned anywhere. He really must remember to thank Aziraphale for being so good at what he does, when next they see each other.

He’d say he’s not counting down the days, the hours, the minutes, but that would be lying.

It’s ridiculous, really. Used to be they went millennia without running into each other, and that was _fine_ , and now even just a handful of years feels like too much. The recent century of separation after their argument had been excruciating, and he is not at all keen on repeating that experience. Never again, not if he can help it.

He’s just going to have to be careful. He will not push Aziraphale away again.


	10. London, 1967

# London, 1967

It’s not like he hadn’t known the whole holy water heist thing was a terrible, terrible idea. He had, after all, come up with it after watching one too many spy films while absolutely hammered. He’d done most of the planning while drunk, too, found people and arranged a meeting spot and everything, and after he’d sobered up — well. He did still want to get his hands on some holy water, in case Hastur or Ligur came nosing around where they shouldn’t.

And it counted as demonic activity, anyway, he’d figured — appealing to people’s greed to get them to steal from a church. Nice triple whammy. Whether he’d looked into those specific humans’ situations and found out that they rather desperately needed the money was entirely beside the point.

It had been a terrible idea, but the plan he’d come up with hadn’t been bad at all. He’d been looking forward to it; it would’ve been fun. Except now he’s not doing it, is he? No, he’s not, he’s going to call off the heist, because —

If the humans could see him, sitting here in his car, clutching a tartan thermos and very nearly weeping over it, they would think him utterly ridiculous, he’s sure. Matter of fact, he’s sure he _is_ being ridiculous. He got what he wanted, didn’t he?

The thing is — he never gets what he wants. Never. But this time —

The Bentley had been parked just across from a pub one street over from the bookshop, since he had decided, in his infinite, drunken stupidity, that it would be the perfect place to discuss the heist with his carelessly-selected team. Not that he’s remotely surprised that happened. He’s always felt safer in Soho than anywhere else, and safest in the bookshop. It’s become just as much a home to him as the Bentley is, really, and he knows that’s wrong, it shouldn’t have, he _knows_ , it’s _Aziraphale’s_ home, it’ll never — he’ll never —

But. Well. He can’t help it.

Either way, Aziraphale had heard about his plans through the grapevine, and, naturally, had decided to confront him. Had, against all of Crowley’s expectations and in spite of not actually having changed his mind, decided to actually give him holy water. And then — 

_Well, can I drop you anywhere?_

He had regretted those words the moment they left his mouth. They’d both known what he was really offering, and it wasn’t to give Aziraphale a lift.

Of course, Aziraphale had declined.

But then —

_Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz._

And that, that wasn’t —

Crowley had repeated his offer, all the while knowing he shouldn’t but desperately wanting to be certain he had not misunderstood. _I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go._

Aziraphale had just looked at him for a long, silent moment, and Crowley had had to fight back the urge to plead with him, to beg, even. He’d likely have gotten no further than _Aziraphale, please_ , anyway; even now, looking back, he doesn’t quite know what he’d have begged for. _Please don’t give me hope_ , probably. He’s never done well with hope — it’s always been just one more thing that could be taken away from him.

And of course he’s thought about it, of course he bloody well has, he’s been dreaming about it ever since first meeting the angel, but what good are dreams to the likes of him? No, he never would’ve asked for this.

But —

_You go too fast for me, Crowley_ , Aziraphale had said, eventually. And then he’d left, had left Crowley frozen, unable to move, to call out to him, to run after him and get him to come back, because —

That was not a no.

It was not a no, and Crowley may not have asked for this terrible, burning, gnawing hope, but now that he has it — he will do anything to keep it.

He will go as slow as Aziraphale needs him to.

And perhaps, one day… perhaps, one day, they could.

One day.


	11. London, 1972

# London, 1972

“I’ll grab the wine,” Aziraphale says as they walk into the bookshop. You can put on some music, if you’d like.”

“Sure.” Crowley ambles towards Aziraphale’s ancient gramophone and the teetering stacks of records near it. “Anything you feel like in particular?”

“Up to you, dear boy. The ones I’ve favoured recently are at the top of the stacks, naturally, but you’re welcome to pick any at all.”

Crowley picks through the records until he finds one that’s suitable — something he knows he likes, that’s also near enough to the top of a pile that he can be sure Aziraphale won’t mind it either. He takes it out of the sleeve, sets it on the platter, and then goes to switch on the gramophone — but the moment he touches the button, there’s an uncomfortable jolt. Like static electricity, only… rather a lot more holy.

“Angel,” he calls out, frowning, “why on earth is your gramophone blessed?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale emerges from the back of the shop, carrying two glasses and several bottles of wine, looking rather worried. “That was an experiment I did a few years ago, checking if it was possible to use blessed objects to influence humans. Sadly, the process is too laborious and the effect too small to be worthwhile. I am so sorry, my dear.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it.” Crowley waves his hand dismissively and resists the urge to suck on his finger. “No harm done. Could’ve asked me, though, I’d have told you it wouldn’t work. Hell tried it too, a few decades back. Came to the same conclusion.”

“Still, I ought to have warned you. Only, I forgot all about it, I’m afraid. The blessing cannot be removed, you see, so I need to buy an entirely new gramophone, and it’s so hard these days to find a good one —” Aziraphale has set the wine and glasses down on the coffee table and is wringing his hands, and really, this cannot be borne.

“It’s _fine_ , Aziraphale, really. It didn’t even hurt, I was just startled. Look.” He presses the button, firmly and deliberately, setting the record to play; then, just to make his point further, he adjusts the volume. He’s not lying — it doesn’t hurt. It’s not even unpleasant, not really, now that he’s expecting it. He can tell it’s Aziraphale’s power; and he trusts Aziraphale would not hurt him.

“If you’re certain,” Aziraphale says, dubiously.

“I am.” Crowley sets his hand on the gramophone, palm flat, and leaves it there, pointedly. “It’s fine. Don’t pointlessly inconvenience yourself on my account, _please_. You like this gramophone. Keep it. Alright?”

“Alright.” Aziraphale smiles brilliantly at that, one of his bright, sunshine smiles that never fail to make Crowley feel warm all the way down to his toes. “Now — you were telling me about this new demonic plan of yours?”

“Yep.” Crowley grins, saunters over to the sofa and flops down on it, sprawling comfortably. “Y’see — the humans are planning out this new motorway around London…”


	12. London, 1997

# London, 1997

Crowley’s new flat is a Brutalist nightmare of concrete and glass — cold, dark, and unwelcoming. He’s not renting, he owns it outright, having paid entirely too much money for it; he picked it out himself, giving careful consideration to every last item on his ever-growing mental list of everything he believes a home ought to have.

The rooms are wide and spacious, the ceilings tall, and he could stretch his wings to their full span without bumping into anything, should he wish to. He’s moved his plants in, and his collection of mementos also, putting on display the ones he can pass off as trophies when Hell inevitably checks in.

Every last thing in the flat has been carefully considered and arranged, down to the most minute detail. It’s absolutely perfect for his purposes.

He hates it, which is precisely the point. It is, after all, not meant to be a home.

It’s merely a base of operations, replacing his previous, Hell-assigned flat, lost when the humans decided to demolish the frankly ancient building it had been part of. It has nothing of the home he’d want, the home he’s been dreaming about and piecing together in his head for millennia, except perhaps the spacious rooms — and, really, those are mostly just because he’s so very tired of banging wing joints on walls and ceilings every time he needs to bloody groom. That’s just the bare minimum of acceptable living conditions.

No, the closest thing he has to a home remains the Bentley; and though he loves it no less than when he first got it, probably more, in fact — it has a radio. A radio that Hell can use to contact him, that he cannot get rid of, because it would arouse suspicions.

Crowley drives like the hounds of Hell are nipping at his heels, and that’s because they are. They always are. No matter how fast he drives, how desperately he tries to leave everything behind for even just a moment, Hell is always there, ready to remind him that he can never be free. That all he managed to get, with all his questions that he’d thought he wanted the answers to, was trading one master for another, one too-strict set of rules for a distorted reflection of them, close enough as to make no difference in the end.

There’s the bookshop, of course. It’s Aziraphale’s home, but it could be his, too. He’s imagined it so often, has never wanted anything more than this. It’s not perfect, of course it isn’t, having been set up to match Aziraphale’s tastes rather than his, but it could work. He could make it work. Aziraphale is there; that would be enough for him. The problem is — the problem is, he feels safe there, but not comfortable. Not _welcome_. Not anymore.

Their scant time together always follows the same pattern, now. They meet in public places — in parks, on the tops of buses, in art galleries and museums, theatres and concert houses. They don’t look at each other; they talk, and they look around. Every time, Crowley invites Aziraphale to a restaurant; sometimes — rarely, too rarely — Aziraphale accepts.

Occasionally, after they’re done with their meal, Aziraphale invites him back to the bookshop for wine and conversation. He knows it’s an offer he should refuse; but he never does. He’s never strong enough to.

And so they go to the bookshop, and they talk and drink, drink and talk. Crowley sprawls out on the sofa or takes to wandering around, leaning on columns and bookshelves alike, taking up as much space as possible while Aziraphale primly confines himself to the armchair, and taking up most of the conversation too, loud and insouciant to cover for Aziraphale’s ever-present, quiet, fretting discomfort. Always, inevitably, outstaying his welcome.

It never takes long — one, two hours at most. Sometimes, barely half an hour; once, a glorious, unbelievable three. Then Aziraphale starts not-so-casually mentioning that it’s getting late, and he has work yet left undone that he really ought to finish before the day is over.

And Crowley takes the hint, and leaves without complaint. He understands, after all, what this is, why it’s like this. He knows.

They’d had a very near miss, back in the mid-seventies. Crowley had stayed at the bookshop overnight and left in the very early morning, as far as they knew entirely unnoticed; but, as Aziraphale had told him afterwards, Gabriel had dropped in for a surprise visit not ten minutes later, and had heavily implied he would be checking in a lot more frequently, from then on.

In the telling, Aziraphale had minimised the incident, had firmly said nothing needed to change, and had then moved the conversation on to another subject entirely; but Crowley had noticed how pale he was, how subdued, how quiet. How frightened.

He understands.

_Do you know what trouble I’d be in if — if they knew I’d been — fraternising?_

If there is any sting left in the memory, it is only from the awareness of how utterly, thoughtlessly selfish he’d been that day. He’d have said, at the time, that his reason for wanting holy water was to protect not only himself, but Aziraphale also. Had that been truly the case, though, there would’ve been a much simpler solution — putting the Arrangement on hold, not seeing each other at all until the danger had passed.

But the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

What he’d been truly wanting to protect, what he’d been so loath to give up, was the both of them, yes, but the both of them _together_.

He had realised, by that point, that he was desperately, terribly, head-over-heels in love with Aziraphale, and had been for a very, very long time. And it’s not that Aziraphale is all he has, not really, if he had to give him up he would be _fine_ , he would be, but — he will not do so without a fight. He will gladly risk destruction for a chance to keep what they have, will gladly risk himself to keep Aziraphale safe. Hence the holy water, but —

But it had not occurred to him, then, that Aziraphale might feel the same. It had not occurred to him that Aziraphale might be exactly as unwilling to risk Crowley as Crowley himself is to risk him. He never would have thought, never would have _dreamed_ that Aziraphale might wholly return his feelings.

Little wonder the angel had reacted so poorly to his request. If their positions had been reversed, and Aziraphale had asked him for hellfire, he doubts he would’ve reacted much better.

_Do you know what trouble I’d be in if —_

He knows.

Heaven is just as bad as Hell, if not worse, and Aziraphale has so much more left to lose than he does. At best, he’d get reprimanded and transferred back Upstairs permanently; at worst —

It does not bear thinking about.

It will not happen. He will not let it happen, he will never endanger Aziraphale that way. He would never forgive himself.

It’s not just about that, though. It’s not just about Aziraphale _being_ safe. They could likely play it a little less carefully, spend a little more time together, and still be safe; but Aziraphale doesn’t think so, Aziraphale would not _feel_ safe. And Crowley would risk destruction for him; this seems like a small thing, in comparison.

And so, he doesn’t push. Never insists. He keeps precisely to the distance Aziraphale wishes him to, and not a step closer; he goes so slow he may as well be standing still. He lets Aziraphale guide them in their endless dance, decide their next steps, trusting that they’re doing this together, that there is a purpose and a point to their every movement, even when it feels like they’re going backwards.

Perhaps, one day —

Ha. Likely never.

But they have the infinity of time, still, stretching out ahead of them. He can dream. He still has that, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Aziraphale hinting that it’s getting late and Crowley ought to leave, I owe to the book.


	13. Eleven years ago

# Eleven years ago

Eleven years. Just eleven more years, and then — fuck.

Of course he’d known the world was going to end eventually, and of course he’d known he was going to have to deal with that, but — he thought he’d have more time.

He thought they’d have more time.

_Fuck._

There’s not really anything he can _do_ about it, is there? If he has any sense at all, he’s going to keep his head down and his fool mouth shut, and spend the next eleven years enjoying all the pleasures the world has to offer. Sure, he’s been around six thousand years, he’s experienced a lot already, but he’s sure there’s things he’s missed. And then, after it all goes down — what then?

The problem with having an imagination is he can picture, very vividly, all the various ways things might go after Armageddon; and the problem with _that_ is, put simply, that not a single one of those is even remotely close to acceptable for him.

What would a best-case scenario even look like, in a situation like this? There’s always the option of asylum, he supposes, citing the Arrangement as proof of having secretly been on the correct side all along. But they can’t know which side will win, so they’d have to pick one and hope for the best — or ask both, and hope neither finds out — or just wait until the war is over and the winner is clear. All this assuming they both make it through the war itself, which is very much not a given.

Crowley’s clever, and more importantly, he has a reputation for it; and everyone knows he has never been a warrior. Odds are decent that he would be able to finagle himself a nice, relatively safe position as a strategist, stay out of any actual fighting, make it through to the other end of the war relatively unscathed.

Aziraphale, though —

Aziraphale is just as clever as he is, just as bright, probably more; but he was created to be a warrior, and so, to Heaven, that’s all he will ever be. He was made to fight, and so, he will be made to fight.

Crowley’s imagination is all too happy to provide a variety of options for what might happen then. He remembers the first great war in Heaven, and uncountable human wars besides; he’s seen far too many horrors to imagine this one would be any different. And so —

Aziraphale killed in a battle or a skirmish to the strategy of which Crowley contributed. Aziraphale captured and tortured for information, then destroyed once no longer useful. Aziraphale forced to kill Crowley, and facing eternity afterwards blaming himself for it — or vice versa, although honestly, were they to fight, Aziraphale would doubtlessly be the one to win. Trying desperately to find each other, to succeed only when one is already dead or dying. Meeting on the field of battle and refusing to kill each other, only for one of them to be killed anyway by someone else, and the other executed as a traitor. One or both of them outright refusing to fight in the war at all, with the same result. Trying to run away together, off in the stars somewhere, only to be found and dragged back in chains. Holy water. Hellfire. Both. Either.

And on, and on, and on, all set against the charming, picturesque background of a completely destroyed Earth, human bodies heaped everywhere, and bless it all, that’s unacceptable, too. Even if he could absolutely guarantee safety for himself and Aziraphale both, that would still be unacceptable. He _likes_ Earth, and the humans, and he is quite keenly aware he’s not supposed to. It’s a major failing in a demon; if Hell knew about this, he’d be in serious trouble.

Any other demon would be happy, right now; any other demon would be proud to have been chosen to help kickstart Armageddon, or, at the very least, wouldn’t be trying to work out a way to interfere with it. But then, he’s not a particularly good demon, in truth, just like he hadn’t been a particularly good angel either, Before. Too many questions, always; too much independent thinking, not enough falling in line.

It’s not that he’s not good at his job. He’s _great_ at it, Hastur and Ligur’s pointless, outdated opinion notwithstanding. He enjoys it, too — there’s nothing like wiling and tempting to keep boredom and ennui and existential dread at bay. And there’s a point to what he does, anyway. He gives humans a chance, a choice, and then it’s up to them what they do with it. There’s no merit in being good if you never have the option to be anything but. It’s exactly what Aziraphale does, except, at least nominally, on the other side of things; it’s why the Arrangement has worked so well, why, taken with some care, it was perfectly safe in spite of being theoretically dangerous.

But now — now, it turns out that all the care they’ve taken, all the hurt they’ve dealt each other in the name of remaining safe — it all was for naught. There is no way around this, no way through. They will be broken apart. No matter what, they will be _broken_.

He closes his eyes for a moment against the pain of the thought, against the persistent images of the only future they have left if he allows this to happen — which is no future at all.

He cannot. He mustn’t.

He needs to talk to Aziraphale.

* * *

Sobriety long since abandoned, Crowley is clinging to consciousness by his fingernails — fingernails that, although entirely metaphorical, feel like they’re bleeding, cracking, splintering, breaking apart and coming entirely off under the unbearable weight; and clinging desperately to hope by the single thought that Aziraphale is letting him do this. He must be, mustn’t he? He’d been saying no throughout, but he’d accepted Crowley’s offer of lunch, had outright invited him to the bookshop for drinks afterwards, and he must have known Crowley wasn’t going to give up, was going to keep pushing.

It’s been six hours of drinking — _six hours_ , longer than they’ve spent together in a very, very, very long time; and Aziraphale, who has managed to remain more sober than Crowley, has not, for all his protestations, given so much as the barest hint that he wants him gone.

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Aziraphale says, very unsteadily, “but I told you. I can’t diso— not do what I’m told. ‘M anangel. I —” A deep, weary sigh; a mangled, slurred cluster of sounds that might be _oh, God._ “I can’t cope with this while I’m drunk. I’m going to sober up.”

_Oh, thank fuck._ “Yeah,” Crowley rasps out. “Me too.”

The process of sobering up is not pretty or pleasant; but then, it never is.

“Even if I wanted to help, I couldn’t,” Aziraphale says, very carefully, when it’s done. “I can’t interfere with the divine plan.”

He looks for all the world like sobering up has left him even less able to cope, rather than more. And Crowley knows he has him.

* * *

They spend hours and hours talking, that night, ironing out every last wrinkle in the plan until they both agree that it’s as foolproof as they can possibly get it. Then they get drunk again, more slowly, in a calmer, more relaxed way born out of a desire for companionship and togetherness rather than out of desperation.

Eventually, the light of dawn begins to break through the bookshop windows, and Crowley knows, without having to be told, that it’s his cue to leave. He sets his empty glass down on the coffee table, stands, and stretches, leisurely. “Right. Check in with each other in a month, then?”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale stands as well, looking uncertain, helpless, wringing his hands in that way of his that means he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. “Crowley…”

Crowley waits, quietly. He knows there is nothing to be gained by trying to prompt the angel when he’s like this.

“I — Crowley. You must know, you must, that I…” Aziraphale trails off again, his voice breaking, and Crowley’s entirely decorative heart gives a painful clench.

“I know,” he says, very gently. “You have made it perfectly clear. I know.”

“But —”

“It’s alright.” Crowley manages to curve his lips into a smile, all too aware of how it doesn’t reach his eyes, how it looks like nothing but a lament, a dirge, an elegy for all that they’ve never been able to be to each other, all that, even if they succeed, even if they save the world, they may never get to be. “I know. I can wait. Tell me when we’ve pulled it off. Tell me when we’re safe.”

If they ever will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The script book has Aziraphale outright invite Crowley to the bookshop after lunch. Seems to me like he very, very much wanted to be convinced.


	14. Thursday

# Thursday (two days to the end of the world)

Were this any other time, Crowley might laugh at the thought of what he must’ve looked like to the humans that spotted him as he climbed out of a window at the back of the bookshop, in extremely rumpled clothes that have very obviously been slept in. He wishes it were that simple.

No, they’d spent hours trying to figure out a way they could still avert Armageddon without knowing what had happened and where the right boy was, and had come up empty; and then they’d just gotten drunk, neither of them saying anything, the silence absolute.

The last thing he remembers with any kind of clarity is leaning back on the sofa, staring at Aziraphale, quietly mourning all the years they’d wasted, all the years they’d never have, and wishing he was brave enough to just lean forward instead, and reach for him. After that, it’s just a jumble of confusing images. Aziraphale pointing out that it was getting very late, and him only managing an incoherent, grumbled response; a hand brushing his hair back from his forehead, a whisper of _whatever you like best_. And that must’ve been his imagination, obviously, but either way he’d fallen asleep and, like the great big besotted idiot he is, he’d dreamt of waking up to Aziraphale’s smile, in a place that was theirs, that he knew instinctively to be _home_.

He’d woken up to Aziraphale, indeed; but Aziraphale shaking him awake, looking very pale. “You need to go,” he’d said, his eyes wide and frightened. “Gabriel and Sandalphon are on their way here.”

“Shit.” Crowley had scrambled off the sofa and made for the nearest window, ruthlessly shoving down his pounding headache to be dealt with later, when a demonic miracle to fix his hangover would attract no notice.

He honestly does not understand why Aziraphale had let him stay at the bookshop overnight, had not shaken him awake much earlier to tell him to sober up and go. He knows, he _knows_ that Aziraphale loves him, though it’s been always left unsaid; but between that and Aziraphale opening his home to him lies a vast, wide gulf, one the angel has ever been unwilling to cross. Even when the bookshop was new, even before the bookshop had existed, before Aziraphale had gotten so badly spooked by Heaven’s unannounced check-ins, Crowley had only ever been welcome conditionally, temporarily, invited only with the unspoken understanding that he would not be staying long.

And now, with Armageddon mere days away, the danger has only gotten higher, and they both know it — so why would Aziraphale do this now? It’s the kind of foolish, reckless thing that Crowley himself might’ve done, the kind he’s always been extremely careful not to even imply he might want, even when so drunk his desperation to be as near to Aziraphale as possible threatened to overwhelm him; he’d almost suspect himself of having failed, of having asked, except — he doesn’t _remember_ asking, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have thought Aziraphale would agree. And — this can’t possibly be his fault, can it? He’d been asleep.

Asleep. The very last time he’ll ever be allowed in the bookshop — no doubt about that, not after being very nearly found out by Gabriel, just as Aziraphale had feared — and he’s utterly wasted it by being asleep through most of it. He wishes —

He doesn’t wish he were an angel still, or an angel again. That ship has sailed, and even if God Herself came down from Heaven in person and offered him his Grace back, he honestly doesn’t think he’d take it. He’s made his peace, mostly, with who and what he is. But he wishes —

He wishes he had not had to go, is all; if he could, if he didn't know it could ruin them both, he would stand at Aziraphale’s side always. He wishes he had not had to abandon him, to leave him alone to face yet another invasion of his home. He wishes —

He wishes his presence could mean something different to Aziraphale; wishes he could offer comfort and safety, not fear.

He wishes they could be each other’s home.

He knows it’s never going to happen.

Yet even now, hours later — having banished his hangover and his headache; having screamed into a pillow for ten minutes straight in a failed attempt at stress relief; having gotten soundly and miserably drunk again — by himself, this time; and having then sobered up again — even now, all he wants to do is call Aziraphale and apologise.

He gets as far as picking up the phone and getting ready to dial before his brain catches up with him, pointing out exactly how stupid an idea that is. There’s a chance — small, but still a chance — that Gabriel might still be there; there is also a chance Aziraphale himself may have had to leave, may have been called upon to return to Heaven and repeat his report to the other Archangels. In either case, Aziraphale would be unable to answer the phone; and Crowley knows the angel does not have an answering machine — not that it would be safe to leave a message, even if he did, not with the possibility of Gabriel being there to hear it.

And lastly, and most importantly… Armageddon is proceeding apace; if Heaven is checking in, Hell is likely to be doing the same, soon. They communicate with him through technology — radio, TV, CD player, whatever is most expedient; and while they have not, so far, used the phone and he is not certain whether they even could, he really, really doesn’t want to risk it. He doesn’t think he could bear it, were he speaking to Aziraphale only to have him suddenly replaced by Hastur or Ligur or whoever. Bob Ross turning into Dagon that one time had been bad enough; not even his usual strategy of complaining vociferously about it to Aziraphale had made him feel better about that, even though the angel had been as sympathetic as ever.

Grimacing, he sets the phone down, snaps the TV on and sinks into his throne. He may as well get this over with.

* * *

He slams the receiver down on the cradle and, of course, regrets it instantly. None of this is Aziraphale’s fault; he’d known going in, straight from the start, that there would be no good ending to this, not for him — only bad or worse ones. He had been told directly, when given his orders to deliver the Antichrist, that there would be great suffering in store for him if anything went wrong. He’d made his choice with his eyes wide open and full awareness of the consequences.

It’s only that, as it turns out, it’s one thing to know you might get punished for your part in saving the world from complete destruction, assuming you don’t manage to talk your way out of it — and quite another to know that you’ve royally fucked up somewhere, the world will likely end in flames, and you will be tortured for eternity anyway. Not even shouting at his plants had made him feel better.

But Aziraphale is still willing to talk to him and, apparently, has an idea. Well, then. It’s not like he’s got anything to lose.

* * *

It’s a complete and utter waste of a day, and at the same time it isn’t. They’re both prickly, uneasy, unsettled by this whole affair, and from the very first moment Aziraphale climbs into the Bentley they’re biting and sniping at each other. It’s about the missing Antichrist, at first, and Crowley finds himself seriously considering miracling the passenger door off the Bentley just so he can shove Aziraphale out; but the journey is long and the number of things that can be said about the present situation finite, and so, before they’ve even left London behind, they devolve into bickering about — well, the usual. Crowley drives too fast and too recklessly for Aziraphale’s liking; Aziraphale has an extremely narrow taste in music and insists on calling anything more recent than the bloody thirties _bebop_ , as if that’ll help anything; Crowley makes fun of Aziraphale bringing a tin of emergency shortbread, in case either of them gets _peckish_ — because of course the bloody angel can’t talk like a normal bloody person.

It should be obnoxious. He should hate every second of it. And yet, were he pressed to describe how it all feels, he would say — relaxing. Comfortable. _Cozy_ , even, and — and bloody _domestic_ , which is completely ridiculous, but when has he ever been able to help how Aziraphale makes him feel? The arguments are well-worn and familiar, like the hideous floral blankets that are always waiting for him on the sofa in the bookshop, like the pair of fluffy warm woolen slippers Aziraphale gave him once as a gift, which he will forever deny he’s kept. Like everything else he knows is not meant for him to find comfort in.

And on, and on, and on. Aziraphale makes eyes at Crowley to get him to fix his coat; Crowley makes fun of Aziraphale for his opinions on guns. Aziraphale calls Crowley _nice_ and Crowley pins him to the nearest wall for his trouble, and if it weren’t that they get interrupted —

But they do.

They find out where the baby swap went wrong, and as it turns out, even if he’d done nothing but what he was told to do, even if he’d been utterly loyal to Hell, even if he’d done everything right — even then, he would still be due a punishment, and isn’t _that_ a wonderfully cheering thought. It’s nothing he hadn’t already known, not really, but…

Aziraphale must notice he’s unsettled, or maybe that’s wishful thinking on Crowley’s part — but either way, the angel starts prodding at him again almost immediately, and he’s happy for the distraction, whatever the reason for it.

And on, and on, and on. An unfortunate run-in with a cyclist leaves the Bentley saddled with a hideously tartan bike rack and Crowley saddled with an uncomfortable amount of guilt, because yes, he’d been driving fast and the Bentley’s lights were off, but he hadn’t meant to hit anyone. His reflexes are good enough that if he’d known the woman was there — but her lights hadn’t been on, either, and while he’d not normally have needed them to spot her, he’d been too distracted bickering with Aziraphale to pay close enough attention.

The woman obviously mistrusts them, which is not at all surprising given Aziraphale’s overly friendly, too helpful behaviour. Apparently, her way to cope with that is to threaten them with a bread knife, which is not only surprising but also incredibly funny. Crowley would normally tease Aziraphale about it — by casually mentioning that there’s a _reason_ angelic encounters normally start with _be not afraid_ , perhaps; except the angel is very clearly offended, so he decides against it.

Instead, he flicks on the Bentley’s headlights, earning himself another glare from the woman, and drives sedately back to the village, at a pace most humans would consider normal and he would call excruciatingly slow, trying to project a feeling of calm and safety while Aziraphale has a sulk, and isn’t that just the _height_ of ridiculousness —

“Listen,” the woman says. Crowley would swear he can feel her frown boring holes into the back of his skull. “My bike, it — it didn’t have gears. I know my bike didn’t have gears. Make a left.”

Crowley shoots Aziraphale a sidelong glance. “Oh Lord,” he mutters, very quietly, “heal this bike.”

“I got carried away,” Aziraphale returns, just as quietly, with a sharp, irritated sigh.

Of course, Aziraphale gets his revenge a scant few minutes later. _Just a perfectly normal velocipede_ , Crowley’s bony arse. He knows the angel knows full well nobody uses that word anymore.

And on, and on, and on. Halfway to London, Aziraphale proclaims he’s feeling peckish, which naturally warrants a stop at a little café in the middle of nowhere; Crowley grouses about the pointlessness of the tin of emergency shortbread and about how Aziraphale had to have known biscuits alone wouldn’t cut it, even as he obligingly swings off the motorway and towards the nearest exit.

Halfway through his third slice of cake, Aziraphale comes up with the idea of having their human operatives search for the Antichrist. It’s completely mad, of course, which means it just might work — and as Crowley is forced to admit, it might be a mad idea, but it’s also their only one. Still, he feels compelled to object, if for no other reason than that he can’t imagine Sergeant Shadwell of the Witchfinder Army figuring out how to open a jam jar, never mind anything more complicated; and as a result, they end up arguing about that most of the rest of the way.

By the time the Bentley brakes to a halt in front of the bookshop, they’ve mostly lapsed into silence, but it’s still comfortable. And he knows, he _knows_ that he shouldn’t push. He’s gotten to spend almost the whole day with Aziraphale, which is more than he usually gets, more than he’s gotten in what feels like an eternity, because even when working for the Dowlings they’d still kept their firm, careful distance. What he’d had of today should be enough. He should not want the night, as well.

He shouldn’t; but he does. They only have a few days left. If they don’t find the Antichrist, if they don’t manage to avert Armageddon, it might be the last time he —

No. He’ll not follow that line of thinking to the end. He will not give up before he even knows whether they’ve lost.

But he still doesn’t want today to be over.

And so he climbs out of the car and picks the thread of their discussion about what music does and doesn’t qualify as ‘bebop’ back up, hoping it might be enough of a hint.

Aziraphale gives him a long, aggrieved look, mouth a flat line, and immediately changes the subject. Crowley does his best to roll with it, but before long, Aziraphale is striding hurriedly towards the bookshop, holding himself in that tense, nervous manner that Crowley knows means he’s inwardly panicking.

“You all right?” he calls out, frowning.

Aziraphale turns to look at him, briefly, but doesn’t stop. “Perfectly, yes. Er, tip-top. Absolutely tickety-boo.”

“Tickety-boo?” Crowley echoes, foolishly, inwardly cursing himself. Of course Aziraphale is not alright. Of course Aziraphale would be panicking at the thought of having Crowley’s company for any longer than strictly necessary.

“Mind how you go.” The words are crisp and clipped; the bookshop door slams shut.

“Right,” Crowley mumbles, doing his best to ignore the way his heart feels like it’s just cracked in half. “Well, that was a thing.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pulling from the script book a fair bit here. In the script, Aziraphale sees Crowley heading for his car (presumably having just left the bookshop) when Gabriel and Sandalphon have just arrived, and Ligur outright threatens Crowley with torture if anything goes wrong; Crowley had also been threatened directly by Satan when he was told to deliver the Antichrist.
> 
> The Anathema encounter I have, as usual for me, based more on the book than on the show.
> 
> And, of course, the book helpfully points out that Crowley, when Aziraphale slams the door bookshop in his face because he’s just found the Nice and Accurate Prophecies, ends up “suddenly feeling very alone”.


	15. Friday

# Friday (one day to the end of the world)

The night brings no respite; all his tried-and-true methods of distraction — reading a novel, reorganising his bookshelves or his CD collection, scrutinising his trembling plants leaf by leaf, pacing back and forth on his balcony — are absolutely no help. Burying his head under a pillow and physically forcing himself to sleep gives him a few hours of relative peace, but before the sun even rises, he’s miracled himself neatly dressed and gone back to pacing. His plants quiver every time his feet take him in their direction, but he cannot bring himself to shout at them, and not just because he knows it wouldn’t make him feel any better. There’s nothing wrong with them; it’d be unfair.

He manages, somehow, to force himself to wait a few more hours before he calls Aziraphale, although, truth be told, he’s not exactly sure how. And of course it’s a thin, flimsy, pitiful excuse he has for calling, checking whether there are any news on the Antichrist, when obviously there wouldn’t be any, not this early in the morning; and he can tell Aziraphale knows this, given how sharply the angel shuts him down, how quickly he hangs up.

He hadn’t expected anything different, not really; but it still stings.

For lack of anything better to do, he calls Shadwell next, to arrange a meeting. It’s not going to help — honestly, at this point, it’s hard to imagine that anything will — but it won’t hurt to try.

* * *

By the time evening comes, he’s done so much pacing around his flat he could almost swear he’d worn a groove into the floor. His plants no longer shake at his approach; instead, they lean towards him, almost brushing his shoulders, practically glowing with a feeling that is too uncomfortably close to sympathy for his liking. He’d glare at them, but he knows his heart wouldn’t be in it.

Too many times to count, he’s reached for the phone and then pulled his hand back. He shouldn’t call Aziraphale. He knows he shouldn’t. He should just wait for the angel to do what he said, and get in touch if there’s anything new.

He cannot get his thoughts to stop running in circles, cannot get his brain to shut up. He’s tried forcing himself to sleep again, to no avail; he’s so tense he just ended up literally climbing the walls.

He shouldn’t call. He shouldn’t.

He does.

* * *

It’s his fault, is the thing. He’s not so utterly lacking in self-awareness as to not realise that. His own bloody fault, ruining things for himself like he always has, the list of mistakes he’d made in that conversation longer than his arm.

Should not have insulted the Great Plan, not when he’d known full well that Aziraphale still believes in it. Should have buried his knee-jerk response to Aziraphale’s thoughts on forgiveness, and to the reminder of his former angelic status. Should not have reacted so poorly to Aziraphale’s expectation that if the Antichrist needed to be killed, Crowley would be the one to do it.

And, above all, should not have asked Aziraphale to run away with him. Should’ve known better than that.

For a moment, he’d thought he’d caught _want_ on Aziraphale’s face, the same deep-rooted desire that he’s always felt for a home they can share, and for a moment, he’d let himself hope; but then Aziraphale’s expression had shuttered, and he’d known.

No, Aziraphale might love him, but it’ll never be enough. He’s an angel; he’ll always love Heaven more. A demon’s love would be an awfully poor substitute for everything he stands to lose, and Crowley has always known this, has always been aware of what choice Aziraphale would make if forced into one. Even a moment’s hope had been a moment too long.

_There is no ‘our side’, Crowley. Not anymore. It’s over._

It’s over. Funny way of putting it, that. As if it had ever begun, as if they’d ever stood a chance. As if there could’ve ever really been a _them_.

As if it had ever been anything other than a fool’s dream.


	16. Saturday

# Saturday (the last day of the world)

He can’t stay. He just — he _can’t_. It’s gone well beyond a hypothetical. Hastur and Ligur are coming for him, and if they find him —

He cannot hide. But if he runs far enough away, he will not need to. Run far enough away, and they’ll figure it’s not worth wasting the time to track him down before the war begins, and afterwards — well. They’ll hopefully either have lost or, at the very least, have forgotten all about him.

He knows where to go — Alpha Centauri. And he knows he should’ve left already, shouldn’t have squandered a morning sat in a cinema sulking into a bag of popcorn and feeling sorry for himself.

Of course, Aziraphale hasn’t been in touch. Of course. Crowley had not expected anything different. But he’d hoped —

If he goes, he knows he likely will never see Aziraphale again.

If he stays — it’ll be no different, really. So it should be a no-brainer of a choice.

He knows he cannot stay; but still, he does not want to go.

And it’s not, he’s not — It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s _fine_ , he’s not upset, or — or _heartbroken_ , and if he’s at all angry, he’s angry with the universe, really. It’s not fair, but then, nobody ever said it was going to be fair.

Aziraphale has made the choice Crowley has always known he would make, and Crowley cannot blame him for it. It’s what he’d always expected would happen, in the end. But he’d hoped —

No. He hadn’t hoped. He’d always known there was no hope to be had. But that never stopped him from wishing Aziraphale might choose him, instead. Even now, he can’t help but think that maybe, if he can track down Aziraphale, if he can only apologise, maybe —

But no. That’s a foolish thought. He’ll drop by the bookshop one last time, just to look at it from the outside, for closure’s sake; and then he’ll go.

* * *

Well, _that_ had gone down like a lead balloon. He might as well not have bothered at all.

Hell is after him, Dagon had still been rambling threats through the radio when he’d jumped out of the Bentley to intercept Aziraphale; and Aziraphale thought he was being ridiculous, Aziraphale didn’t _care_ , Aziraphale is still under the illusion that God will fix it. Which makes sense. He is, after all, still an angel.

It’s fine. It’s nothing he hadn’t expected. He’ll get over it. Time to pack his things and go, before Hell catches up with him.

* * *

He clambers into the Bentley, still grinning madly, still shaking from the adrenaline. Ligur melted into a puddle, Hastur trapped inside his answering machine. He cannot believe he managed that. Sure, it’d have been better if Hastur had gotten splashed by the holy water also, but beggars can’t be choosers, and all that. And the best part is, for all of Dagon’s posturing, Hell is not very likely to send anyone else after him, not this close to Armageddon. He’s as safe as he’s going to get. There will never be a better time to leave; he should go while he can.

Except —

Aziraphale had called him, while Hastur was there; had said something about the Antichrist. And Hastur had said —

_You and your best friend Aziraphale, you’re dead meat!_

Hell knows about Aziraphale. Which means —

 _Shit_.

He needs to get to the bookshop.

* * *

The bookshop is burning.

The bookshop is _burning_ , and there are humans milling around it like ants trying to put it out, and that’s ridiculous, that’s _impossible_. The bookshop is Aziraphale’s _home_. Aziraphale would not — he would never let it — if he knew, he would never allow —

But the bookshop is burning. Which means —

Where is Aziraphale? Why isn’t he —

The bookshop is warded, protected; there are spells on it that will alert Aziraphale of any danger to it, no matter where he is on Earth. Crowley knows this for certain; he helped set them up. So why is the bookshop burning? Why is Aziraphale doing nothing? Where is he?

Crowley jams his foot down on the brake, bringing the Bentley to a screeching halt; leaps out; and all but runs to the bookshop. A human moves to intercept him, demanding to know whether he owns the bookshop — what a ridiculous question, as if he could — and trying to prevent him from going any further; he just brushes the prat off, and storms inside.

He calls for Aziraphale, of course he does, hoping against hope that he will be answered, but the thing is — the thing is, he can’t _feel_ him. Always before, always, he could reach out with some — some eighth or ninth sense or _whatever_ , and know exactly where Aziraphale was. Could always, unerringly, find him.

But not now.

Now, he reaches out, and all he finds is an echoing void, an emptiness where Aziraphale used to be. He’s gone.

His best friend, his only true friend — the only being in this God-forsaken universe who ever genuinely cared for his company, who saw him and loved him for who he is — his one constant, his guiding star — the only home he’s ever wanted — gone.

Hell must’ve done this. Or Heaven. Doesn’t really matter, though, really. In the end, they’re the same, it’s all the same. It doesn’t matter.

Aziraphale is gone.

Aziraphale is _gone_ ; nothing matters, not anymore. Not Heaven, not Hell, not the world. Nothing.

It can all burn.

* * *

It’s his fault. Obviously it’s his fault. Purely, unquestionably his fault. If he hadn’t talked Aziraphale into trying to stop Armageddon — if he hadn’t stupidly, selfishly kept pushing for more, more, always more — if he had never approached Aziraphale to begin with — Aziraphale would still be alive. And as for him — well, yeah, he’d still have nothing. But he wouldn’t mind it. Likely wouldn’t even know it.

Or, or — if he hadn’t been a demon — if he hadn’t Fallen —

He’d never been a particularly good angel, and he knows, deep down, that being a demon suits him much better. But if he’d known —

He never wanted any of this. Never would’ve asked for it.

He had been painfully, desperately lonely, yes, he can see that now, looking back. But he hadn’t had the understanding of it, back then, or the vocabulary to describe it, or the desire to change it. He’d had his stars. He’d been — content.

Had he had the brains to keep his fool mouth shut and stop asking questions, the guts to tell Lucifer where he could shove himself and his posse —

Like as not, he’d still be an angel. Off among his stars somewhere, probably — still lonely, still not really talking to anyone — not happy, no, but not — not _this_. Not _here_. Not trying and failing to numb his pain and drown his heartbreak in alcohol, surrounded by humans studiously pretending he isn’t there, ranting to a stone-faced bartender who’s learned the hard way not to ask any questions. Not dealing with the knowledge of exactly what it feels like to lose everything he’d always known he could never have anyway.

And Aziraphale would still be alive.

_And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!_

The last thing he’d ever said to Aziraphale, and it had been a lie, knowingly and deliberately aimed to wound. He’d known he would regret it; but at that point, he hadn’t cared. He’d been angry — terrified — _hurt_ — and he’d just wanted to lash out. He’d seen the barb hit home, had caught Aziraphale’s flinch; even then, in the moment, it had taken an effort of will to not immediately turn back and apologise. And now, now — he wishes he could take it back, take it all back. Tell Aziraphale he hadn’t meant it, that the only universe in which what he’d said would be true would be one in which they’d never met.

If he focuses, he can almost see Aziraphale, right there in front of him — a wavering, blurry image, pale and washed out, clothes a bleached facsimile of his usual outfit, as if Crowley is already forgetting what he looked like. And he knows, he _knows_ that it’s only his imagination, that Aziraphale is _gone_ , but —

“Aziraphale…?” _I am so sorry I left you_ , he wants to continue, even though he’s perfectly aware he’s talking to a figment of his own imagination; but the image turns its head to look at him, and the motion is so achingly familiar, so utterly lifelike that he can’t smother the sudden hope that roars to life in his chest, threatening to choke him. “Are you here?”

“Good question,” the image replies, inexplicably. “Not certain. Never done this before.” It won’t hold his gaze; its eyes keep skittering away, as if it’s desperately trying to avoid eye contact. “Can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you.” He could probably hear it even if he suddenly went deaf. It is, after all, only his imagination.

“Afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things.” The brief, wry, self-deprecating smile, too, is painfully familiar, as is the hesitation. “Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

He can feel the neck of the whiskey bottle he’s holding creaking under the death grip of his hand, and forces himself to let go of it. “Nah, changed my mind. Stuff happened.” He tries to sound glib, sound careless, but even to this imaginary Aziraphale, he cannot manage to. His voice breaks; there are cracks all along the sentence, all along his heart. “I lost my best friend.”

There is a long pause; the image looks like it’s struggling for words. “I’m so sorry to hear it,” it eventually says; and really, Crowley has to be impressed with his own imagination. He hadn’t known what the image would answer, but this is perfectly in character. Aziraphale has made the stiff upper lip a way of life to an extent that would make the most British of British people green with envy. For a moment, Crowley can almost fool himself into thinking Aziraphale is truly here; but then the image continues. “Listen, er, back in my bookshop there’s a book I need you to get.”

Of course even an imaginary version of Aziraphale would end up asking after his bookshop. This time, he doesn’t even bother trying to keep his voice from breaking — he knows it would be impossible. “Oh… your — your bookshop isn’t there any more.”

The image frowns. “Oh?”

“I’m really sorry. It burned down.” _Burned down with you in it, and took you from the world, from_ me _, and now there is no good left anywhere at all, not with you gone._

There is another long pause. “All of it?” The image looks profoundly, unutterably hurt. It’s not an expression that sits well on Aziraphale’s face, and all Crowley wants to do is wipe it off, by any means necessary, no matter that this is not truly Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” he stammers out. “What — what was the book?”

“The one the young lady with the bicycle left behind,” the image says. “ _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of —_ ”

“ _Agnes Nutter_!” Crowley exclaims, holding the book up and jabbing a finger at it. He’s aware he looks ridiculous, but he cannot bring himself to care. “Yes, I took it!”

“You have it?” The image’s expression brightens, turns hopeful.

“Look, souvenir!”

“Look inside, I made notes.”

_Notes? What —_

He opens the book.

There are notes. Folded sheets of paper, several of them, covered front and back in Aziraphale’s neat, overly-fussy handwriting. He hadn’t known they were there. But then —

Aziraphale is smiling, now, and still talking, but Crowley cannot really hear him over the pounding of blood in his ears. _Alive alive alive he’s alive he’s alive —_

“Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you,” he manages, hoarsely. “Where are you?”

That wry smile again. “I — I — I’m not really anywhere, yet. I’ve been discorporated.”

“Oh.” Discorporated. He’d been in Heaven, then, and had come back to Earth, and — and it must have been against Heaven’s wishes —

“You need to get to Tadfield Airbase.”

— it must have been, else he’d have been given a new body. But then — then — “Wuh — why?”

If Aziraphale is getting tired of Crowley’s failed attempts at coherency, he’s very good at hiding it. “World ending,” he says, almost cheerfully, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the universe. Which it probably is, really; if Aziraphale is here, that means he’s decided to side with — with Earth. “That’s where it’s all going to happen. Quite soon now. I’ll head there, too. I just need to find a receptive body. Harder than you’d think.”

“I’m not going to go there,” Crowley mutters, almost automatically. He’s still trying to gather his scattered wits, but he’s never let an opportunity to tease Aziraphale pass by, and he’s not about to start now.

“I do need a body. Pity I can’t inhabit yours!” Aziraphale’s cheerful grin freezes Crowley’s brain in its tracks again; all he manages in answer is a grunt. “Angel, demon… probably explode.”

Crowley swallows back a _we can try, I wouldn’t mind_ just in time, turning it into another incoherent noise instead. Really not a good time for his thoughts to take off in that direction.

Aziraphale is still talking, not even giving him a moment to recover. Typical. “So, I’ll meet you at Tadfield, but we’re both going to have to get a bit of a wiggle on.”

“What?” Honestly, Aziraphale and his bloody outdated language…

“Tadfield. Airbase!”

“I heard that, it was the wiggle on,” Crowley grouses — too late, because Aziraphale has vanished. But Crowley can feel him again, if he focuses; knows he’s flitting around the world, trying to find a human who is sensitive enough to the supernatural that Aziraphale can borrow their body.

Right. Tadfield, then.

* * *

They’ve made it through. Somehow — mostly thanks to the humans, honestly — Armageddon has been averted. The world will not end. Yes, there will still be Hell to pay — or Heaven to pay, depending — but for now, there is quiet. For now, they can sit on a bench, and wait for the bus, and share a bottle of wine. Neither of them will get even remotely close to tipsy from half a bottle, of course, but that is, for once, not the point. What they’re both after, what they both desperately need, is companionship.

“I’m sorry about the car,” Aziraphale says, quietly. “I know how much you liked it. Perhaps if you concentrated really hard —”

Crowley waves a hand in dismissal. “It wouldn’t be the same. I had it from new, you know.” And it had been one of the very few things he’d managed to keep, and a home of sorts, but — _It was worth it_ , he wants to say. _There is nothing I wouldn’t be prepared to give up for your sake._ He doesn’t think Aziraphale is quite ready to hear that, though, now or possibly ever. So, instead, he takes a long pull from the bottle, and swallows back the words along with the wine.

The conversation ebbs and flows, both of them too wrung out to really focus. There’s a charred scrap of a prophecy to figure out, which Crowley really hopes will keep until the morning, else they are well and truly fucked; there is a wholly human deliveryman collecting the instruments of the Four Horsemen, to be delivered to parts unknown; there is, finally, the bus to Oxford, miraculously redirected to London.

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop,” Aziraphale says, as the bus approaches.

Crowley takes a deep breath, presses his lips together. He really wishes he didn’t have to be the one to do this. “It burned down,” he says, as gently as he can. “Remember?”

Aziraphale’s eyes fill with tears, and he looks away — and _God_ , this is even worse the second time around. He hadn’t been able to see Aziraphale clearly, in the pub; he hadn’t known it was truly him.

“You can stay at my place, if you like,” he says, helplessly. It is a poor offering, no replacement at all for all that Aziraphale has lost, but it’s all he has left to give.

Hope dawns bright on Aziraphale’s face for a moment; but then his expression closes off again. “I don’t — I don’t think my side would like that.”

Of course. It’s an old hurt, familiar, the aching path of it well-known and carefully mapped, like pressing down on old bruises to reassure yourself that you can still feel, you are still there, still alive. Crowley rolls his shoulders under it, bears its weight for a moment, and then lets it go, lets it ripple over him and flow away, mostly unacknowledged. None of it is Aziraphale’s fault. “You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, won’t hold his gaze, just wrings his hands; but on the bus, he takes the seat next to him, and takes his hand, too, twining their fingers together and holding on tight, as if he never wants them to be parted again.

And that, really, is answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that Dagon is threatening Crowley over the radio when Crowley finds Aziraphale outside of the bookshop is from the script book; the “I’m sorry about the car” exchange is also pulled straight from there.


	17. Sunday

# Sunday (the very first day of the rest of their lives)

It’s well past midnight by the time the bus drops them off in Mayfair. And Crowley had meant to make the driver go faster than the usual snail’s pace at which buses generally travel, really, he had, but —

Aziraphale had held his hand. The touch was grounding, comforting, and, despite his best efforts, Crowley had found himself dozing off. The first few times, he’d caught himself on the cusp of sleep and had blinked himself back awake; and then Aziraphale had pointed out, very gently, that he was very clearly exhausted, and he may as well use the journey to get some rest. The next time he’d felt his eyes closing, he hadn’t fought it.

He had half-woken once over the whole course of the journey, fairly early on, fully intending to drag himself to full wakefulness and declare he’d had enough rest — except he’d found himself half-curled towards Aziraphale, with his head leaning on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale’s head tipped to the side and resting against his, and he’d thought, helplessly, _just a few more minutes_ , and had let his eyes slip closed again.

The next time he’d woken after that was when the bus had rumbled to a stop, right in front of his building. Aziraphale was still holding his hand, and had shown no inclination to let go. And so they had continued to hold hands as they got off the bus, and walked into the building, and in the elevator; and they are holding hands still as they walk into Crowley’s flat.

“Mind the puddle,” Crowley says, carefully stepping over what remains of Ligur and pulling Aziraphale gently inside after him. “Used to be Ligur. Probably ruin your shoes forever if you step in it.”

Aziraphale looks down, frowns, and waves his free hand, banishing the melted demon bits. “I’m sorry I was not here to help when they came for you.”

“Eh. I got him with the holy water, so really, that counts as you helping. Wish I’d had more time to set it up, though, I’d probably have caught Hastur in it as well if I did. Was a bit of a rush.”

“Still.” Aziraphale steps deeper into the flat, and freezes, staring around in open, obvious dismay. “Crowley — _this_ is your home?”

Crowley snorts. “Hardly. Demon, remember? Just a base of operations. I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable, but —” He gestures at the room. “You see the issue.”

“I do, yes.” Aziraphale frowns. “I would’ve thought, when you got assigned to London permanently —”

“Nah, didn’t want to risk it.” Crowley shrugs. “Come on — the bedroom is this way.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and gives him a very pointed look.

“Not — uh. I don’t mean — it’s the least uncomfortable room, is what I meant. Nice soft bed and all. Figured I could pass it off as sloth, if anyone asked.”

“So your reasons for inviting me to your bedroom are not, in fact, at all related to your reasons for owning the statue that is so prominently displayed in that corridor over there?”

Crowley only manages to keep from blushing bright red through a supreme effort of will — and, judging by Aziraphale’s smirk, the angel is perfectly aware of that fact. “They’re _wrestling_ , Aziraphale,” he says, clinging to what little remains of his shredded dignity. “It represents evil triumphing over good. It’s a perfectly acceptable subject for a sculpture. They’ve got racier stuff in the bloody British Museum, and you know it.”

“Right, of course,” Aziraphale says, very mildly, still smirking. “My mistake.” 

And then — and _then_ — Aziraphale squeezes his hand, which he’s still holding; and the aggrieved, incoherent noise Crowley was _planning_ on making in response dies strangled in his throat. “‘S fine,” he manages, after a few false starts.

Aziraphale just beams at him. “Lead the way.”

As they walk through the flat, Aziraphale keeps looking around, obviously intent on taking in every detail. The way his eyebrows go up when he notices the eagle lectern, and again when he sees the plants, tells Crowley that there will be a discussion about those in the future; but they make it to the bedroom without further angelic commentary, at least.

Aziraphale does let go of his hand then, but that’s just fine with him, because his bed has never looked more attractive. He makes a beeline for it and flings himself on it face first, trading his normal clothes for pyjamas with a miracle in the process.

There’s a snort of suppressed laughter from behind him, but he chooses to ignore that in favour of squirming forward until his face is buried in a pillow. Then, without lifting his head, he pats the empty space next to him.

“Oh, very well,” Aziraphale says, sounding amused.

There is a pause, and then Crowley feels the mattress dip, so he rolls onto his side to look up at the angel. That turns out to be a mistake.

Aziraphale has shed his shoes, his jacket and his waistcoat; he is sitting on the bed in just his shirt and trousers, and is currently undoing his bowtie. “I felt a touch overdressed, with you in pyjamas, so I thought I’d put us on more of an even footing,” he says, cheerfully, bouncing a little. “This is really very comfortable — I see what you meant about sloth.”

“Ngh,” Crowley says, eloquently.

Aziraphale sets his bowtie down on the bedside table, and adjusts his position so he’s half-sitting, half-leaning against the headboard; and then he takes out the scrap of prophecy, and holds it out to Crowley. “I worked it out, I think,” he says, quietly. “Thought about it on the bus, while you were asleep.”

Crowley props himself up on an elbow. “Do tell.”

“We collaborated to stop Armageddon, so — they’ll want to do the same, in order to punish us, would be my guess.”

“That does make sense,” Crowley says. “So?”

“So — it will be hellfire, I think, for me.”

Crowley manages not to flinch, but it’s a very near thing. “Can’t say I like that thought very much. Holy water for me, then?”

“Yes, I imagine so.” Aziraphale’s pinched face tells him exactly what the angel thinks of that. “I think the prophecy means for us to swap. You would take my body, and my place in Heaven; I would take yours, and your place in Hell. We’d be —”

“Immune,” Crowley breathes.

“Yes.” Aziraphale smiles, briefly. “I don’t think they’ll come for us before morning — Heaven, at least, wouldn’t want to make a public spectacle of it, so they’d have to arrange it quietly —”

“So we’d best practice now, while we have the time,” Crowley interrupts.

Aziraphale frowns. “I rather thought you could rest a little more, first. Forgive me, dear boy, but you look terrible.”

He feels it. The day’s exertions have taken a lot out of him. But still — “I’m fine,” he says, scrambling up to a sitting position. “Practice now, rest after.” He’s pretty sure Aziraphale’s right, and they will be safe until morning; but he does not want to risk it. “How do we do this?”

At first, they try to simply slip free of their body as they normally would, but that only leaves them to float untethered, unable to find their way to each other’s body. The dozen or so failed attempts leave Crowley shaking with poorly-masked exhaustion; when he folds back into his body after the last, he tips over before he can stop himself, falling against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, trying and failing to right himself. “Give me a moment.”

“You need more than a moment, Crowley, you need _rest_ ,” Aziraphale says, firmly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and holding him close. “There’s little point in exhausting yourself like this.”

Crowley buries his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and fumbles for Aziraphale’s hand, seeking the comfort of his presence. “One last try. Then I’ll take a nap.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Very well. One last try.”

They slip free of their body again, but this time — this time, Crowley can feel not just his own body, but Aziraphale’s, as well; and it’s clear that it’s the same for the angel, because they just slip past each other, smoothly, and in the very next moment, Crowley is blinking open eyes that aren’t his. The strange thing is, he’s still curled up in Aziraphale’s arms; only now, he’s in Aziraphale’s body, and Aziraphale is in his.

“Well,” he says — and it comes out in Aziraphale’s voice. “Bloody _weird_ , this is.”

“I thought we’d be swapping into each other’s bodies,” Aziraphale says, in Crowley’s voice — and good grief, that is, somehow, even weirder. He’s never really heard his own voice from the outside before, not beyond a few answering machine messages and the like. “Not… our bodies swapping places around us, or whatever it is that happened here.”

“At least it worked. I don’t reckon it’s an exact science, do you? Never heard of something like this being done before. Likely everyone else thought, you know…” Crowley wrinkles his nose. Aziraphale’s face doesn’t quite work the same as his, but he thinks there’s enough motion there to make the meaning clear anyway. “Angel, demon. Probably explode.”

“Oh, good _Lord_ ,” Aziraphale says, sounding somehow utterly like himself for that one brief moment, even though he’s still speaking with Crowley’s voice. “Do I really sound like that all the time?”

Crowley grins toothily. “Sure do.” He knows how Aziraphale feels, though, if he has to be honest. They’d better not talk too much like this, or he’s going to get a bloody complex about his own voice, and then where would he be? “Here, let’s swap back.”

They do, and then, for good measure, they try it a few more times. It’s the physical contact that does it, as it turns out. If they’re not touching, it’s utterly impossible; but with even just Crowley’s little finger pressed to the tip of Aziraphale’s nose, it’s as easy as anything. They don’t particularly have to think about the mechanics of it, or expend even the tiniest sliver of power. All they need, really, is trust in each other — and that, they’ve always had.

Eventually, Crowley flops backwards on the bed, satisfied with their practice. “Well, we’re as ready as we’re going to be.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale hesitates. “Crowley? Would you — oh, never mind.”

Crowley lifts his head to look at him. “What?”

Aziraphale hesitates again, blushes faintly — and then simply holds an arm out in invitation.

“Oh. Don’t have to ask me twice.” Crowley hurries to curl up against Aziraphale’s side, before the angel can change his mind. “Soft,” he murmurs, contentedly.

Aziraphale huffs. “Do you know, you’re the only being I know who sees that as a positive.”

Crowley snorts. “Hardly. I know for a fact Warlock thought you were wonderfully huggable, and I — how did he put it? — _too pointy, Nanny, no!_ And as for everyone else… well. Not my fault, or yours, if they’re all idiots.” He presses as close to Aziraphale as possible, and flings an arm and a leg over him, to underscore his point. “Wake me if anything happens, yeah?”

Aziraphale chuckles and holds him close, stroking his hair gently, almost a benediction. “Rest, my dear. I’ll keep watch.”

* * *

Aziraphale wakes him a few hours before dawn. They switch, and then Crowley heads out, through the back door the building has just realised it has. Of course, it makes no difference anymore if they’re caught together — they cannot possibly be in any more trouble than they already are — but changing their habits now might tip off Heaven or Hell to the fact that they’re _expecting_ to be caught and punished. They do, of course, have an agreement to meet at their usual spot in St James’s Park at half past ten if nothing has happened before then; but otherwise, they are each doing what the other would do. And so, Aziraphale is staying in Crowley’s flat, and Crowley — Crowley is back at the bookshop.

He’d known, when he left his flat, that he would likely find the bookshop intact. He had, after all, spotted his Bentley from the balcony, parked in front of the building, right where he always left it. But it’s still a mindfuck for the ages to stand in front of it, to walk through the door, to meander around, running his hand along the spines of shelves upon shelves of books that are exactly where he remembers them to have been. He’d been there when the bookshop had burned down, he’d been inside when the roof collapsed, and now — it’s as if it never happened.

But he _remembers_ it.

He’ll get over it, he supposes. At least Aziraphale will be happy — all his precious books, returned to him. With some additions, true, but as far as Crowley can tell, nothing’s missing, so there’s no harm in the new books being there. If Aziraphale doesn’t like having them, he can just sell them — though Crowley wonders if the angel might refuse to do that, just on the principle of the thing.

By the time Aziraphale’s ridiculous grandfather clock too-cheerfully chimes ten, Crowley’s lost count of the number of loops he’s paced around the shop, and feels just about ready to crawl out of his borrowed skin. He feels utterly safe in here, as he always has, and that’s just — that’s wrong, isn’t it? That shouldn’t be —

If he closes his eyes, he can still see the flames licking up the walls, hungrily swallowing the bookshelves, and besides, Heaven is about to come for him. He should be feeling — who the fuck knows, impending fucking doom or something, not warmth or safety. Especially not without Aziraphale here. And he definitely should not be feeling like he’s home, because this is not his home.

He doesn’t want to leave, he just wants to sprawl out on the sofa and never move again, and at the same time he cannot bear to stay here even a minute longer. It’s fine to leave now, right? He could make it to St James’s in less than five minutes, if he were driving, but obviously Aziraphale would walk, so — wait, _would_ Aziraphale walk, or would he take a taxi? He’s never — they’ve never taken a taxi, at least not together. They take the Bentley for longer distances, and walk shorter ones. Does Aziraphale ever take a taxi? How far is too far? Will it look strange if he walks to St James’s?

The clock chimes a quarter past, and every single one of the four notes feels like it’s echoing deep in his bones, scraping his very last nerve raw. Fuck it, walking it is.

* * *

It works.

They meet at St James’s, they talk briefly, and then they are taken — Crowley first, and while he hates the brief look he gets at Aziraphale’s panic while he is dragged away, he rather thinks the other way around would’ve been worse. He doesn’t know that he could’ve kept character while watching Aziraphale being taken from him.

As expected, there is no trial, and no audience. Just Uriel and Sandalphon, standing there and attempting to look forbidding and reproachful while Gabriel pontificates on the greater good and then orders him to walk into hellfire, just like that. Utterly sure that Aziraphale will obey his order, as he always has.

“Well. Lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

Crowley grits his teeth, his lips twitching up in a small, brief, bitter smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes. And the Oscar goes to Anthony J. Crowley, for managing to keep pretending to be Aziraphale, gracious and dignified to the last, rather than giving in to the desperate urge to punch the Archangel fucking Gabriel right in his stupid fucking face.

The hellfire roars in front of him, and for a moment, he’s back in the burning bookshop; then, in a blink, he’s in his burning, falling-apart Bentley, racing desperately towards Tadfield. Right. Once more into the flames for Aziraphale’s sake, then. Three’s a nice, symbolic number, isn’t it? There’s probably at least one book all about that in the bookshop. He’ll have to look it up, later. That’s a thing he’ll be able to do, because there will be a later. He’s a demon, hellfire won’t hurt him, no matter that he’s in Heaven, in Aziraphale’s body, just like holy water won’t hurt Aziraphale. This is what they’re meant to do. They’ll keep each other safe.

It’s fine. He’s fine. They’re going to be just fine. He never asked to be a demon, but for this — to be here — to walk into hellfire with his head held high, to take Aziraphale’s place and save him from an undeserved execution, to spin out in spite of everything a happy ending that would’ve made good old Billy Shakes green with envy — if it got him here, not just wanting to protect the angel he loves but actually _able_ to, then it was all worth it, every last bit of it.

He closes his eyes and cracks his neck, sighing happily, letting the tension melt away from him like he would under a nice hot shower. When he opens his eyes again, the Archangels are staring at him, frightened and uneasy — but not quite frightened enough. Not yet. And so he widens his eyes theatrically, bares his teeth in a mad grin and breathes hellfire towards them, taking great pleasure in watching them leap back.

He stands in the hellfire a little while longer, rolling a lick of flame around and around his fingers like a magician might roll a coin, just to really get the message across, and then steps out, neatening his clothes as he’s seen Aziraphale do uncountable times. “I believe I have more than made my point,” he says, as mildly as possible.

“Of — of course,” Gabriel hastens to answer, looking pale and shaken. “Of course. You’re free to leave.”

Crowley can’t help himself. “Must I go so soon? I was hoping to visit with my old platoon. Catch up with the old boys a bit.”

Gabriel manages, somehow, to pale further. “I’m afraid — that won’t be possible,” he grits out. “They are rather — busy, winding down from full military alert status back to normal. I’m sure you understand. I shall relay your best wishes to them personally, and tell them all about your — er — your promotion to —”

“Fully independent agent, not to be disturbed under any circumstances?” Crowley prompts, with a polite smile.

Gabriel nods hurriedly.

“Excellent.” Still smiling, he turns on his heel, not bothering with a goodbye. Nobody stops him as he walks out of Heaven, humming a jaunty tune under his breath.

They’d agreed to meet in Berkeley Square, but when Crowley finally reaches the bottom of the almost interminable escalator, Aziraphale is there, waiting for him in the lobby, his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the column between the two doors in a way that Crowley has never done in his entire _life_ , not even once — his hip position is _entirely wrong_ , he looks like he’s gonna slide down any moment, it’s a very fine balancing act — but when he opens his mouth to acerbically say exactly that, all that comes out instead is a fervent “oh, thank _God_ ”.

Aziraphale pushes himself off the column and almost stumbles in his haste, moving a few steps towards him, relief writ plain on his face; then he stops, with an aborted gesture that Crowley knows would have, had Aziraphale not stopped himself, led to hand-wringing. “I know we’d said —”

Crowley smiles and shakes his head. “I know. It’s fine.” Had he been the first one to reach the lobby, he likely would’ve given in to the temptation to wait here, also. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale smiles back. “Let’s.”

* * *

None of this is going like Crowley expected it to, and he’s not quite sure how to deal with it.

They’d walked to Berkeley Square, had found themselves a bench, and had swapped back; and then they’d celebrated their continued survival with lunch at the Ritz. After that, he’d expected Aziraphale to apologise and say that he wanted to go check on his bookshop, and they would see each other tomorrow; but instead, lunch at the Ritz had turned into afternoon cocktails at the Ritz bar, which had then turned into dinner at the Ritz, all on Aziraphale’s initiative.

And then, as the restaurant was about to close, Aziraphale had cheerfully mentioned that it was such a lovely night, and might Crowley want to go for a walk? Of course Crowley, though somewhat bewildered by the invitation, wasn’t about to decline. They’d wandered into Hyde Park and had stayed there, unnoticed, long after the park closed, just walking and talking.

Eventually, Aziraphale had suggested returning to the bookshop — together. And so they’d walked back to Soho. Once inside the bookshop, Crowley had automatically beelined for the sofa and made himself comfortable on it, as usual, but Aziraphale — Aziraphale had wrung his hands, looking anxious, and had asked if he could please wait a few moments, as there was something he simply must check on, upstairs.

Crowley hadn’t even known the bookshop _had_ an upstairs other than the mezzanine around the oculus, and had said something to that extent, paired with an apology for not knowing to check and an assurance that he did not mind waiting; and Aziraphale had nodded, and had disappeared up a staircase Crowley would swear blind he’s never seen before. Either it had been miraculously hidden, or he’s just that unobservant. Hopefully the former. Having somehow missed the existence of a staircase for centuries would be bloody embarrassing.

It’s been quite a while longer than just a few moments, and Aziraphale still has not reappeared, though Crowley can feel he’s still in the bookshop, so he’s not worried. And it’s been another incredibly long day, it’s well past midnight, and he’s gotten used to sleeping at night, over the millennia; and he is warm, and he is comfortable, and he is _safe_. He’s just going to close his eyes and nap for a few minutes. Aziraphale will wake him when he returns.


	18. Monday

# Monday (the new beginning)

It is, Crowley thinks blearily, extremely impolite of the sun to shine so brightly so early in the morning. Especially directly in his face. He yanks the duvet over his head with an incoherent noise and very nearly succeeds in going back to sleep, except his brain catches up with the incongruity of the situation. The only windows in the bookshop that would allow sunlight to shine directly on the sofa on which he’d fallen asleep always have their blinds pulled down; and the sofa itself only has a pair of throws on it — definitely not the duvet he’s curled up underneath, nor the extremely soft pillow his head is lying on.

Cautiously, he pokes out from under the duvet again, squinting against the brightness. When he adjusts, the first thing he sees is Aziraphale. The angel is deeply asleep, propped up against a mountain of pillows, an open book still held loosely in his hands. He’s wearing, of all things, a tartan nightgown with a matching night cap, one of the old-fashioned ones with a tail with a bobble on the end. He manages, somehow, to look completely ridiculous and utterly lovely at the same time.

The pillows piled at the head of the bed — Crowley himself has nearly as many on his side as Aziraphale does on his — are an even split between black and tartan; the duvet cover is black, with abstract shapes picked out in barely-visible dark red, though he can see, looking at where the duvet is folded back, that it has a tartan-patterned underside. The overall effect is surprisingly stylish, all things considered.

Warily, Crowley looks down at himself, honestly expecting to see tartan there, too. He’s wearing pyjamas, not a nightgown; they’re black, with red detailing at the cuffs, and they very closely resemble the pair he’d worn at his own flat the night before, though they’re cotton rather than silk and the cut is a bit old-fashioned. Well, that’s a relief.

He’s still in the bookshop, he can tell that much, though it’s a part of it he’s never seen before. This, then, must be Aziraphale’s flat, the one he hadn’t even known existed until last night. The ever-present, unexplainable, unmistakable feeling of warm-safe- _home_ is even stronger here, echoing from every corner, woven into the very bones of the building.

Part of him wants to explore; part of him wants to wake Aziraphale, and ask him to show him around. But he can count the number of times he’s seen Aziraphale sleep on one hand and have fingers left over, and the soft pinks and golds of sunrise are still clinging to the sliver of sky he can see framed in the window, through the parted curtains. So, instead, he leans over to Aziraphale’s side and pulls the open book from his unresisting hands, then takes a bookmark from the jar on the bedside table — because of course Aziraphale would keep a jar of bookmarks on his bedside table — and slips it into the book, closing it and setting it aside. Then, he waves the curtains closed so no more sunlight will disturb them, and burrows back under the duvet. A few more hours of sleep won’t hurt.

* * *

He wakes again several hours later, to find Aziraphale still sleeping soundly. He’s slid down the mountain of pillows and rolled over to face Crowley; he’s captured one of Crowley’s hands in both of his, holding it against his cheek; he is smiling in his sleep.

Crowley’s heart is turning over and over in his chest, thudding in his ears, caught in the clench of an unfamiliar emotion that takes him a few moments to place — happiness, unmarred by worry or fear that it’ll be taken away. He very, very badly wants to kiss Aziraphale awake, but he refrains. He knows Aziraphale loves him, of course he does, Aziraphale has made that perfectly clear, but — _too fast_ still echoes, like a barrier, in the space between them. They’re free now; they have forever; he can give Aziraphale as much time as he needs. He has no wish to fall at the very last hurdle.

Instead, he very carefully untangles his hand from Aziraphale’s grasp, gently pulls his night cap off — love or not, his tolerance for ridiculous, outmoded, _tartan_ clothing has _limits_ — and contents himself with kissing his forehead, feather-light. “I love you,” he whispers, very softly, knowing Aziraphale is sleeping too deeply to hear.

The day is surprisingly chilly for late August, making him shiver as he leaves the warmth of the bed behind; the door leading out of the bedroom is halfway closed, and his attention is drawn to the dressing gown hanging from a hook on the back of it. Unlike the nightgown Aziraphale is wearing, it’s not entirely tartan; it’s mostly a shade of colour reminiscent of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, with a strip of tartan at the cuffs and on the lapels. It looks warm and comfortable, and, even from a distance, he can tell it smells like Aziraphale. Impulsively, he walks over to it and puts it on; then, with a thought, he pulls a black-and-red dressing gown out of the ether and hangs it on the hook as a replacement.

The room just outside the bedroom is a lounge — wide, bright and airy, with a tall, vaulted ceiling culminating in the same central oculus that provides most of the light in the bookshop during the day. It’s very obviously the central room of the flat, and just as obviously doesn’t quite exist in normal space, because if it did, the oculus would not be visible from within the bookshop proper — not to mention that the ceiling in here is taller than the whole building is supposed to be. He could stretch out his wings as wide as they can go, in here, and not bump into anything. A lot of miracling must’ve gone into setting it all up; he wonders how Aziraphale justified it to Heaven’s beancounters.

The flat appears to be arranged, much like the bookshop, on a roughly square-shaped floor plan, around the four cardinal directions; there are letters marking them around the edges of the oculus, just like in the bookshop below. The bedroom he just left is on the east side of the building, which explains rather a lot about why he was so rudely awoken by sunlight at such an ungodly hour. Aziraphale must’ve not realised exactly how pernicious east-facing windows are when one is trying to sleep in, given how rarely he indulges.

What draws and holds his attention, though, is the room right across from where he’s standing. Judging from the cabinets he can see through the open doorway, that’s the kitchen; that means the chance of coffee, and he’d need to be far more awake than he currently is to resist that particular siren call, even though he knows it’s quite possible there will be no coffee to be found. This is, after all, Aziraphale’s flat, and while Aziraphale does keep some instant coffee in the bookshop kitchenette, he’s made it clear that’s only as a concession to what he calls Crowley’s ‘abysmal taste in hot beverages’.

Indeed, to say that Aziraphale is unenthusiastic about coffee would be to understate things severely. The one time Crowley had, out of sheer, burning curiosity, dragged him into a Starbucks and told him to order whatever he’d like, Aziraphale had hemmed and hawed for what felt like an eternity. What he’d eventually chosen had been a frothy concoction that much more closely resembled a dessert than it did a drink; he’d explained it by saying that was the only thing that seemed like it could possibly mask the taste of the coffee itself.

There’s nothing wrong with the taste of coffee, as far as Crowley’s concerned. Sure, it’s not amazing, but it’s part of what actually helps you wake up, right? It’s not even that he minds the occasional sugary Starbucks monstrosity, really — they can make for a relaxing afternoon. In the mornings, though, he much prefers his coffee properly brewed and as black as his soul, thank you _very_ much, regardless of the fact that he can miracle himself awake just as easily as he can miracle himself sober. But he’ll take the instant coffee, if that’s all there is, even if he has to go fetch it from downstairs.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t find any instant coffee in the kitchen. Surprisingly, he _does_ find a number of moka pots of different sizes and several varieties of ground coffee, as well as a grinder and multiple kinds of coffee beans. Neither the moka pots nor the grinder look like they’ve seen much use, but it’s a lot more than he was expecting. He grabs the largest of the moka pots and spends a little while picking out a coffee variety, then a while longer, while the coffee brews, poking around curiously. There are winged mugs, naturally, both black and white, and several kinds of cocoa and tea — but not much else; though there’s a full set of dishes and cutlery, as well as various pots and pans, the fridge is empty, as are most of the cupboards. Well, there goes his vague idea of making breakfast for Aziraphale.

Eventually, his coffee is ready, and he can take himself and his black-winged mug of probably too much coffee back to the lounge.

It’s kind of a really odd room, now that he looks at it properly. Sure, there are shelves taking up most of the available wall space, crammed full of books and overflowing with knickknacks, but other than that, it’s surprisingly stylish, and would not look at all out of place in the pages of an interior design magazine. For one, the furniture is, if not exactly modern, at least contemporary enough, and the coffee table, comfortable-looking armchair and enormous, L-shaped sofa clustered in front of the fireplace actually match each other in style. Behind the sofa is a square dining table, rustic-looking but solid, with four matching chairs; several floor lamps are scattered around, ensuring plenty of light even at night.

The strangest item in the whole room, though, has to be the television hanging on the wall to the left of the fireplace. It’s a large, sleek flat-screen TV, barely ten years old if he is any judge, and it makes absolutely no sense for it to be here. Aziraphale does not watch TV, Crowley knows this for a fact. So, what — is this a hallucination? Some sort of hyper-realistic dream? Is he about to open his eyes again — for real, this time — and find himself alone, in his dark, cold flat? No, that can’t possibly be the case. Sure, he’s had dreams set in the bookshop before, but they’ve never, ever felt like the real thing.

“Well, you’re a puzzle,” he mutters, quietly. “Don’t suppose you feel like explaining yourself? No?” He snaps his fingers at the TV, pointedly.

The TV does not explain itself, but it does obligingly turn itself on. Just a normal TV, after all, except — he could feel it resisting, a little.

He snaps his fingers again, and the TV turns itself off — and again, that same minute resistance. It’s _blessed_. Which makes even _less_ sense, because why would Aziraphale have a blessed TV in his flat? Sure, the gramophone downstairs is still blessed, even several decades down the line, but that had been blessed because Aziraphale was experimenting with —

— or had it?

The memory presents itself unbidden. It had been one of the first few times Hell had contacted him through a television, and, naturally, he’d complained about it to Aziraphale, who had made the appropriate sympathetic noises, and then had asked if there was anything at all that could be done to prevent it.

Crowley had thought about it for a minute or two — not an easy task, seeing as how by then, they’d already been several bottles of wine past drunk and well on the way to completely sloshed — and had shrugged. “Well, if the thing was blessed, that’d keep them off it, I suppose,” he’d said. “But that’d just be suspicious. Imagine, a demon owning a blessed telly.”

Aziraphale had hummed, in that vaguely thoughtful way of his, and had changed the subject.

It had been a stupid, drunken idea, but it would work, he can see that now. The blessing is intricate and extremely clever, as usual for Aziraphale’s work — not a general, blanket blessing, but specifically designed to forcefully keep most demons out while giving Crowley as little trouble as possible. Between that and the wards on the bookshop, even if Hell were inclined to contact him, they couldn’t. Not here.

It can’t be anything but deliberate. Something only he would ever use, made safe for him, here in Aziraphale’s flat. Safety for a demon, in an angel’s home.

But then —

 _Safe_ , the building sings out at him, when he reaches out to it on the ethereal plane. _Home._

He’d thought it was just the wards, which have always, always been set to allow him in, that made him feel so welcome — but this is clearly something else. Something _more_. Frowning, he downs his coffee in a single long swallow and vanishes the mug back to the kitchen, then sets about exploring the room in earnest.

Unlike in the bookshop downstairs, the books here are actually arranged in a relatively sensible order, mostly by subject; some of the shelves even have labels, in Aziraphale’s careful handwriting. Astronomy, and gardening, and — and _vintage car maintenance_ , for crying out loud, all the things Crowley enjoys, all carefully catalogued and collected in a library. And then, of course, there’s everything they’ve shared over the six thousand years they’ve lived on this beautiful mudball of a planet — plays they’ve seen together, books they’ve discussed, treatises they’ve argued about. There’s a copy of Aristotle’s _Poetics_ that looks to be the very same they’d used when they’d debated the merits of the work, back in Rome, along with those ridiculous silver laurels he’d been wearing that first day, when Aziraphale had found him in that tavern. He hadn’t thought anything of it, when he’d left the laurels behind in Aziraphale’s beautiful villa along with everything else he’d had in Rome, when he’d been reassigned and had stolen away like a thief in the night without even saying goodbye. He’d figured Aziraphale would just toss them, hadn’t counted on them being kept and — and _treasured_ , very clearly treasured, and bless it all, he is _not_ going to cry.

Immediately to the left and right of the bedroom door there’s a break in the shelves, just enough to make space for a pair of framed portraits, done in sanguine by a hand he recognises. He remembers Leonardo asking if he could sketch him, remembers the mischievous twinkle in the painter’s eyes, should’ve known he’d been up to something — but he’d been happily buzzed on good Italian wine and basking in the warm sun, and had honestly not wanted to muster up the energy to care. Matching portraits, really, as if they were bloody nobility, as if they were an actual couple — he hadn’t even known Aziraphale had been in Italy then, let alone — they hadn’t even been talking in those years, not really, they’d had an argument a few decades earlier and they hadn’t been _talking_ , and Aziraphale had still — had already wanted —

He is not. Going. To bloody _cry_.

The next shelf holds not books, but music — records, cassettes and CDs, and, at the bottom, a sleek sound system that can play all three, also blessed against demonic interference. The music is categorised, too — classical, opera, musical theatre and more, as well as a section containing every single bit of modern music Crowley has ever expressed a liking for in front of Aziraphale. This last is labelled, in particularly fancy writing full of curlicues and decorative swoops, _bebop_ , because of course it is. Tucked between two CDs in this section is a note, scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper — “Velvet Underground”. Even in the middle of scrambling to prevent Armageddon, even distracted as he’d been by that book of prophecies, Aziraphale had been thinking about him. About this. About the possibility of there being a _them_.

More shelves, more books, more mementos of their time together, and so many, _so many_ of them are things Crowley had thought lost — things he’d been forced to abandon, things he’d left somewhere he’d thought safe only to find out it hadn’t been. A wicker basket, slotted into one of the shelves, holds Aziraphale’s cloak from Wessex; Crowley had kept that for centuries, strengthening and protecting it against the damages of time with careful miracles, but it had been in his house in London, when that had burned down — and now it’s here, somehow, safe in Aziraphale’s flat, angelic miracles overlaid on the tracery of his demonic ones. Shelf after shelf after shelf, memory after memory after memory — it’s all here, everything he never got to keep, all carefully kept by Aziraphale for him, instead.

He’s done almost a full circuit of the room when he finds his feather. It’s just sitting innocently, almost inconspicuously on the mantelpiece, between an obsidian snake statuette that he’d given Aziraphale mostly as a joke and a much finer marble angel statuette he’d had specifically commissioned as a gift. He’d have found it earlier, if he’d gone the other direction when exploring — but then again, had he not seen everything else in the room first, he might’ve freaked out. Not that he’s feeling particularly emotionally stable now.

His feather is sitting on the mantelpiece, together with one of Aziraphale’s feathers — about the same in size, likely also a covert; they’re tied together with a dark red ribbon, and tucked inside a small, intricately decorated silver vase.

He knows the ribbon — he’d woven it himself. He’d given it to Aziraphale as a favour during a tourney, when they’d coincidentally ended up at the same king’s court, Crowley as a lady, Aziraphale as a knight. He’d honestly meant it mostly as a joke, but Aziraphale had smiled at him, had gone into the field wearing his colours, had won the tourney for him. Crowley had wanted to kiss him, then; but he’d limited himself to a quick peck on the cheek, while the humans around them hooted and heckled and hollered.

He knows the vase, too. Aziraphale had learned silversmithing, who knows when or where, and had made it, and given it to him as a gift. He’d demurred — he’d pointed out that he didn’t really have anywhere to keep it — he’d all but outright said that surely someone more worthy of such a gift could be found — but Aziraphale had insisted, and Crowley had caved. He’d thought it lost like the cloak, like everything else, just one among the many mementos gone when his last attempt at making a home for himself had burned to ashes; he’d thought, at the time, _see, I was right, I cannot be trusted with anything precious_. But here it is.

And he knows — he may be Fallen, but he _remembers_ , he knows what this means. One feather from each, willingly given; and something made by their own hands, again willingly given, to hold them together. It used to be a lot more intangible, back in the day — a shaft of sunlight, a stretch of song, or maybe a ribbon of stars, a fluff of cloud — but it’s the origin that matters, not the substance, and the result —

 _Home_ , the building sings at him, entirely unprompted; and no bloody wonder, that. He doesn’t quite know whether he wants to laugh or cry. Both, probably.

“Crowley?”

Crowley whirls around. His angel is standing there, all rumpled from sleep, looking somehow utterly _perfect_ in his daft tartan nightgown and the black-and-red dressing gown Crowley left for him to find.

“ _Aziraphale_.” Despite his best efforts, his voice cracks on the name.

“Oh.” Aziraphale wrings his hands, his face a picture of dismay. “ _Oh_ , you saw — I should’ve — I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Crowley asks blankly.

“I am,” Aziraphale says, earnestly. “I ought to have asked you, before I — you’ve made clear how you feel, but I know you didn’t intend —”

Crowley stalks forward, and grabs Aziraphale by the lapels, and yanks him into a kiss, silencing any further apologies.

“Ah,” the angel says, when they eventually separate, after several minutes of kissing. “I take it you don’t — actually object, then.” He’s red to the tip of his ears, Crowley notices, and his voice is gratifyingly hoarse.

“Of course not, you _idiot_ ,” Crowley says, and has to pull him into another hard, brief kiss just for that, because _honestly_ , what a stupid notion. “All this time? You might’ve said.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale appears to have regained some control over himself. “It took me a while to realise I was, ah —”

“Nesting,” Crowley says. Might as well call a spade a spade, at this point.

“Nesting,” Aziraphale agrees. “I thought it was just friendship, at first. Even when I bought the bookshop, and found myself setting up this flat so you might, eventually, make a — a _home_ in it — I’d decided to use the upstairs half of it as storage space, as you might remember, and so I did, but that felt wrong, so I put the flat back in as well — I thought that was all it was. Friendship, and feeling that you were being unfairly treated, and a desire to right that wrong, and keep you safe.”

Crowley hums. “When’d you work it out, then?”

“When you sent me the feather.” Aziraphale brings up a hand to cup his cheek, strokes his cheekbone with a thumb; helplessly, Crowley turns his face into it, kisses Aziraphale’s palm. They can have this, now. He can have this. It’s alright. “I know that’s not how you intended it —”

“The only reason it’s not how I intended it,” Crowley murmurs, kissing Aziraphale’s palm again, “is because I never would’ve dared to dream, then, that you’d accept it.”

“Be that as it may — I realised then, how much I wanted this, and how I’d been wanting it without knowing for so long. But I thought, at that point — I’d ruined it. I ought to have trusted you, or failing that, I ought to have reached out, and instead, I hurt you so very badly.” Aziraphale sounds regretful. “And you disappeared for almost a century, after that; and I thought I would count myself lucky to still have your friendship, if I ever saw you again. But then, you reappeared —”

Crowley can’t help but smile at the memory. “Hotfooting it around that church, looking like a blessed idiot?”

“Oh, hush. I thought you looked perfectly dashing. And you saved my books —”

“— of course it was the books, I should’ve known, no sense of self-preservation, always the books for you —”

“Hush,” Aziraphale repeats, reproachfully; but he’s smiling. “And then we spent days catching up, just talking, and it was almost as if we’d never been apart at all, not even for a moment. I almost told you then, but I was afraid. If they’d learned what we were to each other…”

“I know,” Crowley says, because he does. He’d always known that they would never be allowed to have this — and now, now they’re here. Part of him is still in disbelief. “Was that when…?”

“Ah, no.” Aziraphale squirms a little. “A few years later. When you got reassigned away from me again.”

Crowley blinks, then grins, delighted. “You got _possessive_!”

“I’m not sure ‘possessive’ is quite the right —”

“No, no, that was brilliant. D’you know, I still feel a bit sorry for that poor bastard they tried replacing me with? And Beelzebub sounded like they’d eaten a whole tree worth of sour lemons when they told me to get back here. I only wish I could’ve seen their face.”

“Really —”

“ _Nineteen smitings_ , angel. Nineteen! In two years!”

“I got _protective_ ,” Aziraphale says, pointedly and more than a little huffily. “I _am_ a guardian.”

“As you say.” Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale and hides his smile in the curve of his neck, reveling in his closeness. “Just saying, if you _did_ feel inclined to be possessive, I wouldn’t particularly mind.”

“Fiend,” Aziraphale mutters, fondly, returning the embrace.

“Guilty as charged.” Crowley chuckles. “So, wait — you started nesting properly then, paired feathers and everything, and then not two decades later you told me I was going too fast?”

Aziraphale winces. “I was afraid,” he says, again, quietly. “I wanted to tell you, but — I was _so afraid_. But I’d just given you a way to destroy yourself, and I wanted — I _needed_ to keep you safe. I’d given you a way to leave; I wanted to give you a reason to stay. But it was — unkindly done.”

“Hey, no.” Crowley strokes Aziraphale’s back, gently. “You did the best you could, given the circumstances. You know how much of a reckless fool I am; you kept us safe until now. And you gave me hope when I’d had none, when I’d have told you I didn’t _want_ any hope. I hadn’t known, until then, that you —”

“That I love you? I should’ve told you earlier. I should’ve told you every day.” Aziraphale sounds like he’s close to tears. “I wanted so badly to bring you here, to show you everything I wanted you to have. If you’d stopped me from leaving then, if you’d ran after me, I don’t know that I could’ve kept it to myself any longer.”

“Then it’s good that I didn’t. You kept us _safe_.”

“And I hated every second of it,” Aziraphale says, miserably. “I wished, some days, that I didn’t love you; or at least, that I hadn’t given in to the nesting impulse. I made a home for us, and then I did my best to keep you away from it, and I could tell — I could _tell_ that you felt safe here, that you wanted to _stay_ , and I kept making you leave. I let you stay a few times, when I thought I could get away with it, but it was never —”

“Never safe,” Crowley says. “I know.”

“Never _enough_. And then, when it came down to it, I pushed you away when I should’ve stood by your side, and I _left_ you, and when I found you again — and you told me the bookshop had burned down — it was a few hours to Armageddon, the fate of the world was at stake, and all I could think then, for a moment, was how I would never be able to tell you — how I’d tried to make a home for you and failed even at that, and nesting ought to be the — the simplest thing —”

“No,” Crowley says, very firmly.

Aziraphale pulls slightly away to look him in the face, blinking, thrown. “No?”

“No. We’re not — okay, look, first of all, let’s not just stand here, there’s a perfectly good sofa right over there that I’m sure you spent a lot of time picking out and I haven’t even tried sitting on it yet, and I’d like to change that.” Crowley pulls out of the hug, gently, then takes Aziraphale by the hand and tugs him in the direction of the sofa. “Shall we?”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Aziraphale mutters, following.

“Yup.” Crowley flops backwards onto the sofa, pulling Aziraphale down with him; it takes them a minute to untangle themselves and get situated, Crowley sprawled out comfortably, Aziraphale curled up against his side, head on his shoulder. “S’it working?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale frowns at him.

“No. I don’t blame you, so I refuse to let you blame yourself, alright?” He pulls Aziraphale closer and sighs. “You made what you thought were the best choices at the time. Hardly your fault Heaven’s just as full of wankers as Hell.”

“I lied to you.”

“Yeah, well, I lied to you also, so we’re even, there. More than. You lied to me because you thought it was the best way to keep us safe; I lied to you because I knew it was going to hurt.”

“When —”

“‘And when I’m off in the stars,’” Crowley quotes, watching Aziraphale’s eyes widen in realisation, “‘I won’t even think about you.’ As far as I knew then, that stood a very high chance of being the last thing I would ever say to you, and I did my best to make it hurt. I was scared, and angry, and frustrated that you weren’t listening to me, but that doesn’t excuse it.”

“I should’ve listened to you, though,” Aziraphale says, softly. “You were right.”

“You can start listening to me now, instead of arguing with me?” Crowley grins winningly at him, earning himself a reproachful glare for his trouble. “No? Alright. You had faith — that’s not a bad thing. And I knew how things were going to shake out, when it got down to the wire. I’m not going to say it didn’t hurt, because that’d be a lie, and I really don’t like lying to you, but —” He shrugs. “I knew. And in the end, when it mattered — you came back to me.”

Aziraphale looks set to reply, to argue, but pauses, very obviously putting things together. “You were in the bookshop,” he says, slowly. “When it burned down.”

“I was. Drove straight here after getting rid of Hastur and Ligur, and found the place in flames. And I knew —” Crowley takes a deep breath and swallows, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “I knew you’d never let that happen, if you were there. And I couldn’t find you — couldn’t sense you anywhere. You were _gone_.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitches. “Dearest…”

“I’d have given anything, at that point, to have you back. Even if, afterwards, I never saw you again. Just to know you were alive. And you know — six thousand years you’ve known me. Six thousand years of being absolutely certain I would never get to have a real home, and I would never get to have you, not how I wanted. And now? Now I’m here. We’re here. Far as I’m concerned, all this is a bloody miracle. A _gift_. One I don’t intend to squander on petty recriminations.”

“But —”

“ _No_ , angel. I know those bastards in Heaven loved nothing more than to make you feel like you failed at every last little thing you did, but they were _wrong_. And whatever failure looks like, it’s not this. Not the world still spinning, and not us, safe, _free_ , in the home you’ve made for us.”

“If it hadn’t been for Adam,” Aziraphale says, “the bookshop would still be gone.”

“And I wouldn’t care,” Crowley says, patiently. “Look — if Adam hadn’t fixed it, what would you have done?”

“I would have asked you for another feather.” There is no hesitation in Aziraphale’s voice. “Or given you one of mine. I would have nested for you again, properly, this time.”

“There you go, then. You can’t possibly think I’d have minded. _You’re_ my home, Aziraphale. Everything else is just icing on the cake. Alright?”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, reluctantly. “But we should still —”

“We will,” Crowley promises. “I’m not saying let’s never talk about this; I’m saying not now. I’m saying it’ll keep. I’m saying I have my priorities in order, and what I’d like to do right now is to cuddle you some more on this astonishingly comfortable sofa — excellent choice, by the way, absolutely fantastic, well done there — and ideally get back to the kissing, because that was lovely —”

“It was,” Aziraphale agrees, with a small smile, blushing a delightful shade of pink.

“— brilliant, glad to know we’re on the same page there.” Crowley winks, and is gratified to see Aziraphale’s smile broaden in return. “And then you can give me a proper tour of this place. Though, I’m just warning you ahead of time here, we’re going to need to have a talk about that music categorising system of yours.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, with that perfect, practiced innocent look of his. “I did my best. I cannot be blamed for not being well-versed in the fine details of —” his smile curls into a grin that Crowley can only define as _impish_ “— bebop.”

Crowley hisses in mock offense. “I’m going to go downstairs and reshelve all your Bibles in the paranormal romance section, see if I don’t.”

“I don’t _have_ a paranormal romance section, and you know that full well.”

“I’ll _make_ one, just for that. It’ll have _Twilight_ in it and everything. Just you wait.”

Aziraphale hums. “As you wish. Though you are aware, of course, that if you interfered with my book collection, I would be perfectly within my rights to retaliate. But — cuddling first, you said?”

“And kisses,” Crowley agrees, gravely. “Very important, that. Top of my list.”

“Very good.” Aziraphale runs a hand through Crowley’s hair, making him shiver, then cups the back of his neck, gently. “Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale tilts his head up, and tugs Crowley down to meet him, and kisses him, long and sweet. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The portraits are, naturally, [these](https://fuckyeahgoodomens.tumblr.com/post/187194659009/part-2-of-the-ineffable-edition-goodies-portraits).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the story. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Copious evidence of the fact that I _still_ have a Good Omens problem may be found on my [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/).


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